


Follow the Strange Trails

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Murder Mystery, Or Is It?, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 01, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Suspense, will tag as i post as to not spoil it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27690698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: A few weeks before winter, Geralt and Jaskier find themselves in White Bridge, where Geralt is hired to kill a monster that's been terrorizing the town, its victims succumbing to a fiery death. But things have been off from the very start, and it soon becomes apparent that not everything in the picturesque town of White Bridge is what it seems, as something truly rotten festers right underneath the surface.Not to mention that Jaskier hasn't been behaving like himself ever since he found Geralt after the mountain, his energy seeping away bit by bit, day by day, as a sickness lays its claim to the bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this fic took me _ages_ to write (like, months), but after a few different versions, this is the one I'm most satisfied with. I'm very proud of it and I really hope y'all like it, too. 
> 
> Title from Way Out There by Lord Huron, because that's really the entire vibe of this fic.
> 
> Without further ado, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

His hands are tight around the reins, heart beating in his throat.

“How much further is it?” he asks Jaskier, who’s peering at the map. The corners of the paper are trembling slightly, Geralt notices, and he would’ve written the shaking of the bard’s usually so sure hands off to the autumn chill, if it hadn’t been for the stench of salt and metal- of _fear_ surrounding them.

“Not far,” Jaskier rasps, his voice raw from disuse – something Geralt’s rarely ever heard from him before. Jaskier clears his throat and looks up from the map as if expecting to see anything in the dense mist that rolls through the fields around them. “Should be there soon.”

“You said that this morning,” Geralt mutters, voice strained, nearly overpowered by the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

A crow caws overhead, loud in the muffled silence around them, grating his ears. He casts his eyes up to the grey sky as it flies by, but he can barely distinguish more than its silhouette.

He can barely distinguish anything in the fog, for that matter. He can only see Jaskier next to him, Roach beneath him, and about thirty feet of the path in front of and behind them. They’ve passed the occasional tree on the side of the dirt road, but besides those, the world around them is grey and damp, strangely muffled in a way that makes him uncomfortable.

He’s well aware something could come out of the mist at any point to attack them, and he probably wouldn’t know until it was too late. _Is this what humans feel like?_ he briefly wonders, the thought gone as soon as it came.

It sets his nerves on end, either way, and his hands clench around the reins more tightly, his knuckles undoubtedly white beneath the leather of his gloves.

The feeling that he’s being watched only makes it worse.

Roach seems to sense his unease and nickers softly, shaking out her mane, and he makes a conscious effort to relax his muscles.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to be faring any better. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, his lute hanging forgotten off his back, the map still in his shaking hands, an unusual tightness around his eyes. Geralt watches as Jaskier stops in the middle of the path, looking down at a stone in the dirt.

The bard pulls his leg back, kicking the thing as hard as he can, both of them following the stone with their eyes as it flies into the fog. Jaskier smiles to himself softly, and Geralt can’t help but feel slightly less uneasy at that childish joy, a hopeful spark of comfort lighting in his chest.

The spark fades away in an instant when the stone comes rolling back from the mist.

The muffled and eerie silence is broken by Jaskier’s startled gasp and the screech of metal as Geralt draws his sword. He dismounts Roach, taking a step forward.

“Jaskier,” he says in a low voice, “get behind me.” Jaskier’s already stepped close to him before he’s finished his sentence, the smell of iron and salt almost unbearable, prickling in his nose, filling his cotton-muffled head.

He strains his eyes and waits. Ever so slowly, a light emerges from the fog, followed by the dark silhouette of a large, burly man. Geralt steps forwards, lowering his sword about an inch, muscles tensed and ready to strike.

Finally, a man steps out of the mist. He’s as tall as he is wide, though the way his black cloak falls over his shoulders tells Geralt that most of his mass is made out of muscle. His face is partially hidden behind a mop of pitch-black hair and a slightly untamed beard, gentle, brown eyes shining from a kind face of the same colour.

“Ah, a Witcher!” the man says in a tone that is way too cheerful for their surroundings, and the discrepancy makes something squirm at the base of Geralt’s neck. “I heard there was one of your kind in Temeria. Gods above, I am pleased to see you here.”

Geralt frowns. Usually, people aren’t exactly _pleased_ at the sight of him. Not unless they’ve got an urgent problem that needs to be handled, at least.

He sheathes his sword, walking towards the man, Jaskier trailing closely behind him, the sharp scent of fear slowly ebbing away, making place for the itchy, flowery smell of curiosity. Geralt ignores it, and reaches out a hand for the man to shake. He feels callouses against his palm when he does.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he introduces himself, when the silence starts to stretch on between the three of them, Jaskier still uncharacteristically quiet. “And my travel companion, Jaskier the bard.” The stranger shakes Jaskier’s hand as well.

“Joerie Kreethe. The smith of White Bridge.”

Geralt feels his eyebrows twitch up towards his hairline, and he turns to look at Jaskier, who seems equally startled. “Curious. We were headed for Vizima.”

Jaskier frowns, looking at the map, still in his hands. “I- I don’t know… Geralt…?”

He sighs, but can’t find it in himself to be even remotely annoyed – after all, they were only planning on going to Vizima to find some last-minute contracts before winter sets in, and it seems like the man has one for them.

Still, it’s not like Jaskier to make a mistake that will bring them this far off track; he’s usually quite good with maps. Not to mention that Jaskier was the one who wanted to go to Vizima in the first place, though Geralt still doesn’t know why.

But it’s a simple mistake. Mistakes happen. Geralt of all people should know that.

He pushes away the memories of the mountain that are threatening to resurface, and turns back to the smith. “So what’s the problem?”

Another crow caws overhead as he reaches back and takes Roach’s reins, starts walking again. Joerie falls into step next to him, Jaskier on the other side of the smith, folding up the map and stuffing it into his pocket, his hands steady, no longer trembling.

“Not sure what the thing is, master Witcher,” Joerie says, “but it’s nasty, is what it is. Three victims we’ve counted so far. Burned, they were.” He shudders. “Dreadful way to go.”

“Where were they found?”

“In the woods around town, good sir. Two in the north, one in the south, if that helps.”

Geralt nods when the smith throws him an unsure, inquiring look. “It does. Continue.”

Joerie shrugs, his lamp jostling a bit as he does so. “Not much else to tell. Burned to a crisp, they were. Not a pretty sight, I imagine.”

“You didn’t see the bodies?”

Joerie shakes his head, and Geralt can see his hand tightening around the lantern, smells the discomfort wafting off the man, mixing with his scent of oil and metal and sweat. “No, I’m no good at dealing with that type a’ stuff. Got a bit of a weak stomach, you see.” Geralt nods. “I just heard the rumours and what the alderman told us.”

“Were there any parts of the bodies missing? Bite marks? Lacerations?”

The smith shakes his head, blood draining from his face, shoulder tensing a bit. “Not that I’ve heard of, sir,” he mutters, earthy eyes fixed on the mist.

“Hmm.”

So, three victims, burned – maybe while they were still alive, maybe not. But either way, as far as they’re aware, nothing’s tried to eat these people. One victim in the south, two in the north. The monster either doesn’t have a lair, or goes out of its way to kill a victim.

Peculiar. But nothing Geralt’s never heard before. Some monsters choose a stretch of woods to claim as their own and kill everyone who gets near it, whether it’s hungry or not. And the fact that the victims have been burned… well, he reckons this thing might be a Slyzard.

A crow caws overhead. Whether it’s the same one as before or not, Geralt can’t tell.

He looks back when he feels the weight of a gaze on him, but he only sees the white wall of mist, about thirty feet behind him. He turns around to look ahead again, something uncomfortable crawling up his spine, goosebumps raising along his arms.

“When was the first victim found?”

Joerie frowns, starts muttering under his breath and counting on the fingers of his free hand. “About three months ago, I reckon. Yes- right before the full moon, it was. I remember because I was… walking my dog that evening, and I smelled ashes so I looked up to see if there was a house on fire. But I only saw the moon, which was half full. The second one was a few weeks after that. The latest… four weeks ago, I think.”

Geralt frowns. So that’s about one victim every few weeks, give or take. That _is_ unusual – at least, it is for a territorial monster. If it was a monster that killed for sustenance, it would make sense that the deaths happen at regular intervals, but if they were chance killings because these people wandered into the creature’s domain, it shouldn’t be fairly regular. Not to mention that there would be more victims, too.

_Strange, indeed._

Something tugs at the back of his mind – the feeling that there’s something not entirely right with what’s going on – but he shakes it away as he lets the smith lead them down the dirt path towards White Bridge.

Soon enough, the compact earth under his feet turns into cobblestones and shortly after that, more and more trees start appearing on the side of the road, the foggy fields giving way for an autumn forest. He lets out a small breath of relief when they’re no longer out in the open.

Still, he draws his sword again, the sharp hiss of it startling both Joerie and Jaskier. If there truly is a territorial monster in these woods, they’re now in more danger than they might realize, the forest around them treacherously quiet and empty, the still-dense fog muffling every little sound.

But nothing attacks them.

He supposes the monster might be on the other side of its domain, then, far enough to not notice them trespassing. Or maybe it’s not a territorial monster after all. Maybe it’s just one without a lair, wandering about in these woods, or one that was so desperate for food, it went all the way around the town to the other side of the forest to find something to eat.

But why not simply attack the outskirts of the town? And if the beast was just hungry, why have none of the victims been eaten?

He sighs, resisting the urge to press his thumb to the spot just above his left eyebrow that always starts to hurt when he gets frustrated or confused.

Soon enough, they pass the first houses on the outskirts of White Bridge. The town seems to be faring quite well – the streets made of cobblestones, the houses getting larger and more luxurious the closer they get to the centre, no beggars on the corners begging for scraps or coins, no garbage piling up in the gutters.

Eventually, though, Joerie stops in the middle of a crossroad. Geralt looks at him, eyebrows pulled up in question.

“Would you like to speak to the alderman first, master Witcher? Or do you prefer to go to the inn first?”

He sighs and looks at Jaskier, who immediately says: “Inn first.” Geralt nods, and Joerie leads them through the winding cobblestone streets, until they find themselves in front of a two-story building.

The shutters and front door are painted a deep forest-green, complementing the beige and brown of the plaster-and-wood walls. There’s a sign hanging above the door, creaking gently in the soft breeze that threads through the town on its rusted chains. _‘The Sweet Loaf Tavern and Inn,’_ it announces, a loaf of bread painted underneath the words.

Geralt turns back around to face Joerie as the smith takes a step back.

“Right, master Witcher, master Bard. Here you have it: the best inn of White Bridge.” He winks conspiratorially, the twinkle returning to his brown eyes, a stark contrast with the gloomy streets around them. “Though it’s also the only inn in White Bridge. Don’t tell Magalie I told you that.”

Geralt waits for Jaskier to make up a clever retort and start a conversation with the man, mentally bracing himself for spending the foreseeable future standing there, waiting until it’s polite to leave. But no such thing comes, and he risks stealing a glance of Jaskier.

He seems a bit pale and quite tired, looking at the smith with one eyebrow pulled up, cornflower eyes a bit flat, and Geralt supposes the stress and fear of the fog-covered fields must’ve gotten to him. That, along with the fact that Jaskier’s been walking all day.

Not for the first time since the mountain, Geralt feels guilty that he hasn’t offered Jaskier a ride on Roach, and he vows to himself to do better next time.

He looks at the smith again, who seems unbothered by the lack of response from either of them and continues to chat. “My shop is on the south side of town, if you ever were to need me, it has a sign hanging right outside the door, so you can’t miss it. Tell Magalie and Bjorn I said hello, and I bid you two goodnight.”

And with that, he turns around, walking into the fog, the light of his lantern swaying gently until it disappears into the wall of grey.

“Right. Let’s get out of the cold,” he mutters, dropping Roach’s reins. He points at her. “Stay.” She has the audacity to snort at him, and he taps her nose lightly. “Yes, I know it’s cold out here. I’ll make sure you get a nice, warm stable soon enough. Stop complaining.”

He turns around to find Jaskier looking at the pair of them with thinly-veiled amusement, his lips desperately trying to twitch up into a smile.

“Don’t,” Geralt grumbles in warning as he pushes past Jaskier into the Sweet Loaf.

A wave of warmth washes over him the second he steps foot over the treshold and he blinks, forcing his pupils into small slits to adjust to the light that fills the entire ground floor of the inn – especially bright after the damp darkness of the fog-covered streets.

The room is quite large, a counter on the right side, stairs ahead, and slightly mismatched tables and chairs littering the spaces in between. He spots a large man coming out of a door behind the counter, the smell he brings with him telling Geralt that the kitchen lies beyond.

He approaches the man. He’s bald and has a ginger beard, grey eyes looking at them with faint interest as he sees them coming. “Aye?”

Not exactly the warmest welcome, but Geralt’s not in the mood for small-talk right now. _When are you ever?_ Jaskier’s voice asks him in the back of his head.

Before he has the chance to answer the innkeeper, though, Jaskier’s already talking. “Hello, good sir! We are here for a room at your lovely inn.” This isn’t the first time Jaskier’s taken the lead in conversations like this and Geralt gladly hands over the reins. He’s loathe to admit it, but Jaskier’s quite good at bartering, even persuasive and charming when needs be – two things that can go a long way when trying to ask for a discount.

The innkeeper doesn’t look all too impressed, though. Not a lot do when Jaskier starts his bargaining. Not that it matters much in the end; Jaskier almost always gets what he wants. “One room or two?”

“One,” Jaskier says, at the same time that Geralt blurts out: “Two.”

The innkeeper pulls an eyebrow up, beard twitching a bit as he probably tries to hide a smile.

Geralt blinks as he and Jaskier look at each other. “One,” the bard repeats emphatically. “We both know we don’t have the coin for two,” he adds in a low voice.

Geralt hates to admit it, but Jaskier’s right. They’ve been low on coin for a while, now, and they haven’t had the chance to sleep at an inn since reuniting yet. The only reason he asked for two rooms is because he’s not sure if Jaskier’s comfortable sharing a room after… well, _everything._ And sure, maybe they’re travelling together again and it almost feels like nothing’s changed at all when Geralt closes his eyes, but their friendship still isn’t the way it used to be.

But if Jaskier’s fine with it, then Geralt’s fine with it.

Jaskier turns back to the innkeeper. “Like you probably just heard me say to my good friend, here, we’re low on coin. But, it just so happens to be that I’m a bard!” He takes a step back from the counter to give the unimpressed innkeeper an elaborate bow, his lute case bouncing on his back, before he starts his usual little speech about how his music will bring in paying customers, and _surely that’s worth a discount, right?_

The innkeeper snorts and cuts him off after a few sentences, shaking his head. “Not gonna happen, lad. People don’t go out at night anymore- or at all, really. Haven’t had a customer in weeks, an’ no one’s gonna show up either, no matter how pretty you sing. Tell you what, though, I’m taking half off the price, since the alderman ain’t gonna pay you anyways. Meals’re free too.”

Geralt frowns. “The alderman’s not paying?”

The innkeeper shrugs his massive shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest, muscles bulging. “Aye.”

Geralt waits for the man to elaborate, sighing inwardly when he doesn’t. “Why not?”

The man shrugs again, picking up a glass from the counter, wiping it on the dirty towel clinging to his shoulder. “Guess it’s got somethin’ to do with that Witcher that came through here a while back. Alderman paid him fair an’ square an’ we thought that was done an’ over with, but turns out it wasn’t.”

“Do you know the name of the other Witcher?”

The innkeeper frowns for a few seconds, before shaking his head. “Didn’t stay long enough to get to know ‘im. Big, mean-looking feller, he was.”

Jaskier snorts softly next to Geralt. “Wow, that helps,” he mutters under his breath, quiet enough for only Geralt’s hearing to pick up on it. “As if that’s not literally every Witcher ever.”

Geralt can’t stop the corners of his mouth from tugging up but he doesn’t say anything back, focusing on the innkeeper again instead. “Thank you. My horse will need a stable.”

“You do need to pay for that.”

He shrugs. “Sure. I’ll pay for everything when the contract’s done.”

“Fine. I don’t care. As long as you pay.”

“You two brothers or something?” Jaskier mutters under his breath.

He doesn’t get the chance to elbow Jaskier in the side, as footsteps come rushing down the stairs, a woman wearing an apron poking her head around the corner. “Bjorn, Lemming threw up in his room again.”

The innkeeper – Bjorn, apparently – swears under his breath, setting the glass he’s still holding down with a loud _clink,_ before hurrying towards the stairs. “Fucking shit, not again. Magalie-“ the woman nods, and Bjorn jerks his head towards Geralt and Jaskier “-can you finish that up?”

The woman – Magalie – nods, and goes to stand behind the counter. “Right. Sorry about that,” she says, tucking a few strands that have escaped from her elaborate braids behind her ear. “Have you got the keys to the rooms yet?”

“ _Key,_ actually,” Jaskier corrects her, giving her a broad smile. “Just the one, my fair maiden.”

Magalie snorts as she opens a box standing on the counter, fishing out a key and handing it to Geralt with a pointed look at Jaskier, though there’s something warm and amused in her blue eyes. “I am no maiden, and I am certainly not fair, lad.”

Geralt can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips when Jaskier seems to sag a bit, dramatic pout on his face. “Well, you are beautiful, darling, even if you refuse to believe it.”

The woman laughs again. “Don’t ‘ _darling’_ me, boy. I’m old enough to be your mother.”

Jaskier, to his credit, doesn’t let that faze him, seems to bask in the playful banter, even. “Well, I’ll certainly never say no to a nice evening with an older lady.”

Magalie rolls her eyes. “Right. But I’m not offering one. Now, if you’ll sit down somewhere, I’ll bring you your dinner shortly.”

Jaskier grins at her. “Thank you ever so much, my lovely Magalie. However can I repay you for your kindness?”

“Maybe don’t call me ‘lovely’ or ‘darling’. That would go a long way, lad.” The corners of her mouth tug up as she turns away, disappearing through the door that leads to the kitchen.

Jaskier walks towards a table in one of the corners, Geralt trailing closely behind, his mind working overtime as his thoughts return to what Bjorn told them.

So the people have already paid a Witcher to deal with this monster, except it’s still here, somehow. Which means that either the Witcher took off with the money without doing the job – which isn’t likely – or he got scared off by it – which is even less likely – or… he thought that he did, in fact, defeat the monster. Or maybe there’s a new monster on the loose.

He shakes his head to clear his mind. No use thinking about it too much, now; he’ll discuss it with the alderman in the morning.

He sits down opposite Jaskier, back turned to the corner, a clear view of the entire – very empty – room in front of him. Jaskier leans forward, chin on his hands. “So, what do you reckon it is, this monster? Maybe a dragon?”

He shakes his head. “No, a dragon would be too large, it would’ve been seen within days. I think it’s a Slyzard. Grey, flying lizard,” he clarifies when he sees the confused look on Jaskier’s face. “Looks a bit like a dragon, but much smaller and much less intelligent. Not as dangerous.”

Jaskier pulls his eyebrows up. “Dangerous enough to kill three people, still.”

“Hmm.” He can’t argue with that.

“Which means that it’ll make for a great ballad! Tell you what, Geralt, I’ll come along and watch you defeat it, and-“

He _can_ argue with _that._ “No.”

Jaskier whines softly, head falling backwards in annoyance for a second or so. “Come on! I’ll stay at a safe distance, you won’t have to worry.”

“Slyzards can fly and spit fire. There is no safe distance, once it has its eye on you.”

“But Geralt, I haven’t written a new song in ages! And I have to update my repertoire before the winter or the people in Oxenfurt will grow bored of me.”

 _Then those people are absolute idiots,_ he thinks to himself. “Find something else to write a song about,” he says instead.

Jaskier bristles, narrowing his eyes at Geralt. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I shall write a song about heartbreak and being told that your existence is a burden before you’re left alone on a monster-infested mountain to fend for yourself.”

Geralt swallows thickly and looks away, sharp pangs of guilt carving at his insides.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mutters, and Geralt can smell the sickly sweet rotten tomato-scent of shame in the air. “That was uncalled for, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You have every right to be angry.”

“No I don’t,” Jaskier sighs. “I know you’re sorry for what happened. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He doesn’t know how to respond but luckily, he doesn’t have to, as Magalie appears from the kitchen again, two bowls of stew in her hands. After she’s set them down, Geralt stops her from leaving again by softly clearing his throat.

She turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Uh… Could you tell us more about that Witcher that came here a while back?”

She frowns, eyes going hazy as she thinks. “Witcher?” She shakes her head, gaze focusing on him again. “I don’t know about any other Witcher. Certainly think I would remember it if one stopped by.” She smiles apologetically. “Sorry, I can’t help you with that.”

Geralt nods his thanks, and she disappears back into the kitchen.

They eat in silence, Jaskier scribbling some things in his notebook, brow furrowed in concentration, as Geralt stares out the window into the grey fog, mind as blissfully empty as it always is before a hunt.

When he’s done eating he slings his swords onto his back again. Over the course of the meal, darkness has fallen outside and the fog’s cleared up a little – he’ll be able to see more clearly during the hunt, then.

But so will the monster.

“Don’t wait up,” he tells Jaskier, as usual. Jaskier nods, giving him a small smile. They both know he will stay awake anyways; he always does. Geralt nods his goodbye and sets out, into the night.

It’s cold outside, the crisp autumn air cool against his skin, leaves rustling over the cobblestones as the breeze blows the mist away. The moon is already high in the sky, half full. He checks on Roach in the stables, making sure she’s settled and well-cared for, before he heads to the north side of town, where the first two victims were found. He figures that, if the monster has a lair, it’ll most likely be there; monsters tend to kill closer to their lair, after all.

It still doesn’t make much sense to him that there’s been a body found on the south side of town, too, though. After all, why would the monster go all the way _around_ town, instead of to the northern outskirts? Clearly, the houses there aren’t the sturdiest – even if they are much more luxurious than most houses he sees in other towns – so the people would be defenceless against a Slyzard.

He shakes his worries away. It’s not the first time he’s seen monsters act out of the ordinary, and most of the time, it means absolutely nothing.

He passes the last houses of White Bridge, crossing into the woods, the trees enveloping him. He expects to meet deadly silence, as he usually does when there’s a large monster on the loose – as if the forests are holding their breath, waiting for the monstrous intruder to go away.

But he hears mice skitter in the leaves. He hears the scratch of tiny nails in bark as squirrels climb up trees. He hears the tell-tale whooshing of an owl as it dives from a branch, sharp claws snatching up a mouse from the leaves, carrying it away to eat it. He hears a crow cawing in the distance.

The forest is as alive as it’ll ever be, as if there’s nothing going on, no danger to be detected or disposed of.

As if there is no monster.

He keeps going, though. He’s not risking returning to town and proclaiming that there is no danger because _‘the woods were too loud’_ , only for someone else to die a few days after he’s left.

Soon enough, after a mile or so, he smells the piercing scent of ashes, and he follows his nose to a small clearing. He doesn’t need to take Cat to see tonight; the light of the half-moon is plenty for his eyes to catch on the darkened circle in the red and orange leaves.

He crouches down at the edge of it, trailing his fingers through the ashes. It’s months old, by now, and he can tell this must’ve been the first death that occurred. What was it that Joerie had said? Three months ago? Sounds about right.

He stands up again, turning in a slow circle to look around. There are no hills or mountains here, no convenient place for a monster to burrow into, to build its lair around. As a matter of fact, it’s not very common for a Slyzard to be found in this part of the Continent – winged creatures often prefer the relative safety of the mountain ranges to the north or even to the south, if needs be.

Still, just because it’s _uncommon_ doesn’t mean it’s _impossible._

So, he starts walking in wider and wider circles around the clearing, eyes scanning his surroundings, ears open for any sound that’s out of the ordinary.

After an hour or so, he can see the outskirts of town, not a hundred yards away. Wherever the creature is, it’s not here. He walks one last circle, just to make sure, and soon enough, his nose picks up on the scent of ashes again.

To the east of the first clearing, about a mile from White Bridge, he finds another small clearing, another ring of ashes in the middle of it.

This one smells more poignant, the ashes more recent, yet still quite a long time ago, and he figures this must be where the second body was found. Again, he walks through the woods in larger and larger circles in search of either a lair or the monster itself, but once again, after an hour or so, he finds himself near the outskirts of town again.

He sighs, rubbing his thumb against that spot above his left eyebrow, trying to rub the sharp, throbbing pain away. He lets his hand drop when it doesn’t work and sets out back to town instead.

_._

The streets of White Bridge are quiet and deserted, though a few curious eyes peek out between closed curtains as he walks by. He remembers the innkeeper, Bjorn, telling him that people don’t go outside much anymore. Not that Geralt blames them; being killed and burned by a monster isn’t the most pleasant way to go.

He walks through the small square at the town centre, the houses the largest and most luxurious here, though one house does catch his attention, standing out from the others.

It’s three stories tall and made of red bricks, whereas all the other houses are two stories tall and covered in white plaster, enforced with wooden beams. He supposes this house must be the alderman’s, then. Aldermen always want to stand out, for some reason, as if their status isn’t enough to satisfy their egos.

He’s about to look away again when movement catches his eye, a curtain fluttering in the upper right window.

He stills, waiting a few seconds, carefully looking at said window, but nothing else happens, the room that lies beyond seemingly dark and lifeless. He shrugs, and keeps moving.

_._

The south side of the forest is practically identical to the north side – the ground littered with orange and yellow leaves, the cold night air crisp against his skin, the moon lighting his way.

An owl hoots in the distance, and he frowns. Once again, he woods aren’t as quiet as they would usually be whenever there’s a large monster out and about.

Which would very much imply that there’s _not_ a monster out and about.

Things aren’t adding up.

About a mile away from town, he finds the most recent patch of burnt leaves, and he bends down to examine it, trailing his gloved fingers through the ashes. The leather comes back slightly slick and shiny, though, the smell of oil filtering through the air.

He looks around, eyes narrowing as he searches for anything else out of the ordinary, and his gaze catches on the glint of something shiny in the leaves. He reaches out, hand closing around a piece of metal wire, thumb rubbing at the rust stains that flake off as soon as he touches them.

He smells copper in the air and realizes that the brownish stains aren’t rust. They’re dried blood.

And suddenly, things _are_ adding up.

The regular intervals between the deaths, the fact that they’re on other ends of town, that there were no limbs missing, no bites taken out of the victims, the oil, the blood-stained piece of metal wire.

There is no monster.

 _Fuck._ He’s walked into a mess, here, he realizes, and part of him begs to just get his stuff and get out of here, tells him he’s in over his head and _he’s a Witcher, godsdamnit, this isn’t part of his job description._

But isn’t it, though? After all, he’s supposed to hunt and kill monsters. And what is a serial killer if not a monster?

He sighs, standing up from where he’s still crouched in the leaves, turning around and making his way back to White Bridge.

For once, he’s grateful for the fact that Jaskier always stays up when Geralt’s on a hunt – too worried to go to sleep, no matter how many times Geralt’s told him that he’ll be fine and that he’ll wake Jaskier up if he needs help.

But right now, he needs Jaskier’s insight, a listening ear to help him make at least a little sense of what’s happening, someone to help him figure out what to do next.

_._

The town is as deserted as it was before, the cobblestone streets lit by the bright moonlight, and he easily finds his way back to the inn, passing the smith’s shop on his way there – easily recognizable by the sign hanging above the door on rusty, creaky chains, a hammer and an anvil clumsily painted on the wood.

The Sweet Loaf isn’t deserted when Geralt walks through the door. There’s a man in one of the corners, a balding head with wispy strands of white hair resting on the surface of the table, back rising and falling regularly – though a little shallowly. The man reeks of alcohol and vomit and Geralt figures that this must be the man that threw up in his room, earlier. Lemming, he remembers Magalie calling him.

He ignores the man for now, though; he’s got more important things on his mind.

When he opens the door to their shared inn room, he expects to find Jaskier sitting upright in the bed, notebook by his side and lute in his lap. He expects blue eyes to shine up at him and a bright smile as Jaskier asks him to tell him _everything_ about the hunt.

What he doesn’t expect, is to find Jaskier asleep, burrowed deep beneath the blankets, snoring softly.

Concern starts to rise in his chest, but then he remembers how tired Jaskier had looked earlier that day, and he figures that the bard just needed some rest. Still, he gently shakes Jaskier’s shoulder to wake him up.

Blue eyes open eventually, blinking up at Geralt.

“You’re back already,” Jaskier mumbles, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. “And not covered in guts. Suppose it went well, then?”

Geralt chews on the inside of his cheek, not sure what to say. “Uh… we’ve got a problem.”

Jaskier blinks again, sitting up straight as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, suddenly awake and alert. “What’s going on?”

Geralt sighs, shrugging his swords off his back and setting them against the wall, the bed creaking softly as he sits down on the edge of the mattress. “There is no monster.”

It’s quiet for a while as his words settle in the room like stones in a riverbed, and he hears Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up slightly. “Geralt, what do you mean, there’s no monster?”

He shrugs, looking at his still-gloved hands, at the oil that shines on the leather, the piece of metal wire burning a hole in his pocket. “There is no monster. Someone murdered those people.”

Silence, stretching thick and heavy between them like honey, until: “Well, fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real quick, I just wanna say thank you all so much for all the comments you've left on the first chapter! I really didn't expect so much support and it makes me very very happy. Thank you.
> 
> Without further ado, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

Jaskier’s pacing around the room, hands folded behind his back, eyes on the wooden floor. “Okay, so what do we do now? Do we go to the king? Maybe he’ll send some guards or soldiers that can help. Or maybe there’s an investigator in Vizima that we can hire.”

Geralt shakes his head from where he’s still sitting on the edge of the bed. “No. Guards and soldiers can’t solve this properly, they’ll just scare the killer away. And by the time we’ve found an investigator and brought them here, the murderer could be long gone. I think…” He frowns, rubbing at that painful spot above his left eyebrow again, eyes glued to the gloves laying on the bedside table, the leather covered in oil and ashes. “I think it’s best if we stay and solve this. The killer doesn’t know we know, so they’re less likely to run.”

Jaskier nods, chewing on the nail of his thumb. “We’ll have to be discreet about it, then. I bet that the second they even have a _hint_ of a suspicion we might be onto them, they’re gone with the wind, never to be found again while they go to another town to continue their spree.”

Geralt nods, sighing deeply.

“So what do we do now?” Jaskier repeats his earlier question. “Maybe find out more about the victims? If they had a common friend or enemy? Someone who would want them dead?”

Geralt balls his hands into frustrated fists, letting his forehead drop against them. “How? How can we ask them _and_ keep this a secret?”

Jaskier shrugs, sitting down at the foot of the bed, looking down at the hardwood floor. “We could only tell the families. Make them promise to keep their mouths shut.”

“One of them could be the murderer. And even if that’s not the case, someone will yap eventually. It’ll never remain a secret.”

Jaskier groans, letting himself fall backwards on the bed. “Ugh, I hate it when you’re right.”

“And even if they had a common friend, it still doesn’t mean much. It’s a small town.”

The bard throws his arm over his eyes. “Alright, alright, I get it! It’s a bad idea.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Geralt looks over his shoulder to find Jaskier looking at him, eyes big and blue and so hopeful Geralt almost has to look away. “Wait,” Jaskier asks, “so you think it’s a good idea?”

Geralt nods, turning back to the wall again. “Hmm.”

It’s quiet between them for a while, and he can almost _see_ the self-satisfied smirk Jaskier must be wearing right now.

“We should speak to the alderman,” he says eventually.

He waits a few seconds for an answer, frowning at the wall when he doesn’t get one. He turns to look over his shoulder again, finding Jaskier fast asleep, chest rising and falling slowly, face open and relaxed.

He can’t help but frown at the sight, no matter how peaceful. He should really pay more attention to Jaskier on the road – he’s a lot more tired than Geralt thought he was. Probably from all the walking.

He gently kneels on the bed, wedging his arms between Jaskier and the sheets, slowly lifting him up, dragging him towards the headboard so that his lower legs are no longer dangling over the edge of the bed. He somehow manages to get the sheets from under Jaskier and over his sleeping form without waking him, softly tucking him in.

It’s still a few hours to sunrise, and if they really are to catch a murderer, then Jaskier needs all the rest he can get.

Geralt can’t go to sleep, though, not with everything that’s been going on. But he can’t stay awake all night, either – it wouldn’t be good for his strength, both mental and physical. And he also can’t _do_ anything right now. He has no information on the victims, on who would’ve wanted to do this to them, on what really happened in those woods, on _anything._ If he were to stay up all night, it would serve no purpose other than to tire him out.

Not to mention that, if Jaskier were to find out Geralt stayed up all night, he would be very disappointed in him.

And he’s disappointed Jaskier way too much already, the past twenty years.

So he settles on the other side of the bed, back supported by a pillow propped up against the headboard, legs folded in front of him, and slips into meditation.

_._

The next morning, they find themselves downstairs again, waiting for their breakfast to be brought to them. Jaskier is yawning and rubbing his eyes when the barmaid Magalie sets their plates down in front of them.

“Anything else I can help you two with?” she asks, looking at Jaskier with a raised eyebrow and a sparkle in her blue eyes when he yawns again.

Jaskier shakes his head, but an idea shoots into Geralt’s head. “Yes, you can.”

She looks at him, tilting her head, a trail of lavender curiosity in her fresh bread and rosemary scent.

“Those people that died. Do you know who they were?”

Magalie sighs, the bitter almonds of grief nearly overwhelming Geralt as she pulls a chair from another table, sitting down next to them. She looks at her hands, fisting into her apron, as she speaks: “Well… there are three of them. The first one, a few months ago, was Lucie. Pretty, young thing, only nineteen. She used to help wait the tables in summer, when this town was still lively.” She shakes her head, looking out the window. “Then there was Annona.”

She bites her lip, gasping softly as her eyes fill with tears.

“Take your time,” Jaskier whispers next to her, a reassuring hand on her arm.

She takes a minute or so to gather herself, before she continues: “Annona was my cousin. She was like a sister to me, though.” A few tears slip over her rosy cheeks, salt mixing with bitter almonds. “And, uh… the latest, about three weeks ago, was Axel. He was young, too, and so nice. Took care of my father’s horse after it got too old.” She frowns, looking at Geralt. “What beast did this to them?”

Geralt looks at Jaskier, meets ocean eyes. The message is loud and clear between them: she’s to be trusted, but they can’t tell her yet.

He turns back to Magalie. “We have our suspicions.”

She nods, rising to her feet again, wiping the tears off her cheeks with the edge of her apron. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, just ask.”

“Well,” Jaskier perks up, “do you by any chance have their addresses?”

_._

A few hours later, they find themselves in front of a large, white house in the centre of town, belonging to the Of Attres, Lucie’s family.

They’re clearly quite wealthy, the house well-kept and the white walls spotless, purple flowers blooming on the windowsills, their petals nearly translucent in the late autumn sunlight.

Geralt knocks, but he takes a step back right afterwards. Jaskier will be the one to do the talking – he’s better at that, and it gives Geralt time to take everything in, to try to find some clues that would go unnoticed without Witcher senses.

He hears some shuffling coming from behind the door, before a small panel in the wood slides open, brown eyes squinting at them.

Before either of them gets the chance to say anything, the panel slams shut again, followed by the sound of several locks being opened. The door swings inwards, then, revealing a woman in her mid-forties, her blonde hair elaborately braided and pinned up, intricate patterns embroidered in the silk of her black dress in silver thread. Her eyes are red-rimmed and tired, though shining with a certain careful curiosity.

“Yes?” she asks, gaze landing on Geralt, the lines in her forehead deepening. “You are the Witcher, are you not?” Geralt nods.

Jaskier takes a step forward, extending his hand with a flourish. The woman takes it, and he presses a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. “And I am his…” he glances at Geralt “companion. Jaskier, a pleasure to meet you, my fair lady.”

She smiles lightly, though the scent of bitter almond grief doesn’t fade away. “Emma of Ellander. I assume you’re here to talk about my Julie, then?” They both nod, and she takes a step to the side, waving her arm. “Come in, then. I’ll go fetch my husband.”

They follow her through a long hallway, towards the back of the house, into a large living room with a view of a small garden – a luxury many can’t afford in the middle of a town centre. She gestures for them to sit on one of the beige couches, and they comply as she leaves the living room.

Geralt looks around. Everything here breathes _expensive:_ the couches and their fine fabric, the elaborately carved oak of the table and the decorative cabinets, the intricate pattern of the rug and its tasteful but vivid colours, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Clearly, these people have plenty of coin to spare.

But it couldn’t save their daughter, in the end.

While the entire room practically reeks of money, there’s something that sticks out like a sore thumb, though.

His eye is caught by something dark. A black, hooded cloak, covering one of the paintings on the wall, a stark contrast against the white and beige and brown and red of the rest of the room. He nudges Jaskier, indicating the thing with his chin, and Jaskier nods – he’ll ask the family about it later.

The door to the living room opens again, Julie’s mother walking in with a man, presumably the father of the victim. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut short but slightly messy, his green eyes equally red-rimmed as his wife’s.

They sit down on the couch opposite Geralt and Jaskier.

“I assume you two are here because…” the man, Julie’s father, begins, new tears filling his eyes, the scent of bitter almonds coming off him in waves. “Because of Julie.” His voice breaks on the name, and his wife clutches at his arm, making small shushing noises.

“We want to help, sir Witcher, we really do,” she says, heartbeat picking up, “but I don’t know what I can tell you that’ll help you catch this monster.”

Their attention is drawn away from Geralt, luckily, when Jaskier clears his throat. “Anything can help,” he says, voice steady and reassuring, “even the smallest details, whatever you can think of – no matter how insignificant you think it is. But, maybe… Let’s start with…” He frowns, casting an insecure, sideways glance at Geralt. “Julie was found in the north, right?” The girl’s parents nod. “And how long ago was that, again?”

Her mother sniffs, wiping at her eyes, the smell of guilt creeping into her ink and roses scent. “About three months.”

“And did she go into the woods often? Or was there a reason you can think of why she might be there that day?”

Geralt knows what Jaskier’s asking about- _really_ asking about: whether her parents know if someone lured her into the woods, or if she went of her own accord. But the two shake their heads, more rotten apple-guilt filling the dry air of the living room.

“No,” the father whispers, his heartrate spiking a moment. “She wasn’t really the type for the outdoors. And we always warned her to stay away from the woods.”

Jaskier frowns. “But did she go alone? Was someone else with her, maybe?”

Her mother shrugs. “We… we don’t know. She went to bed early in the evening, and in the morning, she was gone. We looked everywhere for her, and… and then…” She dissolves into a round of sobs.

“And then they found her,” the girl’s father mutters.

Jaskier nods, and they sit in silence for a while as the woman calms down bit by bit, the tears never really stopping.

Eventually, Jaskier nods at the black cloak covering one of the paintings on the wall. “What’s that?”

The parents cast a look over their shoulders. “Julie’s portrait,” the man says. “We had to cover it. Can’t stand to see her face every time we walk into the room.” He looks away, eyes glazing over, rotten apple-guilt nearly choking Geralt.

“Can we take a look at it?” Jaskier asks, and the father nods.

Jaskier stands up, walking over to the wall and gently lifting the hooded cloak off the golden frame, having to stand on the tips of his toes to do so.

It’s an oil painting of a young woman, blonde hair falling in cascades over her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face. Her brown eyes hold the spark of youth, still – a spitting image of her mother, with the posture and quiet resolve of her father.

“You know,” the man in question mutters, eyes glued to the painting, face slack. “She wanted to leave.”

“Leave?” Jaskier asks, exchanging a look with Geralt at the sudden change in the man’s demeanour. “Where to?”

“Oxenfurt. She was going to become a governess. She always had a thing for children.” He sags a bit, eyes growing even more distant. “We were going to lose her forever.”

Jaskier and Geralt change another look. “And now you have,” he mutters.

“In a way, yes. But… in a way, she’ll always be with us, now.” He smiles softly. “And that is a comforting thought.”

Jaskier smiles back, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, before throwing the black cloak over the painting again.

“Thank you for your time,” Geralt says, voice a bit unsteady – he’s never been good at social interactions. “If you can think of anything else that might be important, don’t hesitate to tell us.”

The parents nod, and Geralt stands up, making his way to the front door, the pitter-patter of Jaskier’s footsteps trailing behind him.

Once outside, he takes a deep breath of crisp autumn air, clearing his nose of the rotten apple-guilt, though it still clings to his clothes.

“What do you think?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt shrugs.

“They feel guilty for losing her, but I’m sure they have no idea who did it.” He frowns. “Strange that she disappeared in the middle of the night.”

Jaskier nods. “That _is_ strange. Not as strange as her parents, though, they were quite weird. ‘ _She’ll always be with us, now’?_ Rich people give me the creeps.”

Geralt smiles softly, rolling his eyes. “You’re a rich person.”

Jaskier scoffs in mock offense. “I am a viscount, Geralt! There is a difference!”

He chuckles softly, and continues walking, as Jaskier goes on a rant about how he may be rich but _he certainly is not a Rich Person, thank you very much._

_._

They’re standing in front of Annona’s house.

Magalie gave them a key, earlier, but now that they’re here, Geralt can see that they won’t be needing it.

The door has already been forced open, the old, rusted lock broken, and when he pushes at the door, he can see scratch marks in the wooden floor of the hall – almost as if someone’s dragged Magalie’s cousin outside.

“Dear gods,” Jaskier mutters next to him, and Geralt nods, slowly and carefully making his way inside.

Annona wasn’t a rich woman, and her house isn’t large, but it is neat – or, at least, Geralt figures it _was_ neat, before someone took her from her own home. There are plants strewn around in the hallway and in the kitchen, the smell of soil heavy in the air, the clay shards of the pots crunching under their boots. There are small side tables knocked over, letters to Annona half-covered in dirt, half-hidden under furniture.

In the kitchen, there are plates shattered on the floor, a bloody knife under the table.

He picks it up, smelling the blade as Jaskier makes a disgusted little noise next to him. He can smell the copper tang of blood, but nothing else except the distant hint of the vegetables it used to chop. He finds a clump of long, blonde hair under one of the cabinets, that holds the same scents as the knife, and he figures that, whoever this hair belonged to got injured in the struggle.

He opens a door to his left to find the pantry behind it, filled with bottles and cheeses and long-moulded vegetables. That isn’t what grabs his attention, though.

What grabs his attention is the scratch of metal on wood when he swings the door open, and he kneels down to run the blade of one of his daggers between the door and the kitchen floor, finding a small piece of metal wire. And, well, if he hadn’t been so sure that the murders were connected already, this certainly would’ve convinced him.

There’s not much else in the kitchen, so he moves on to the rest of the house.

He finds Jaskier in a side room filled with rolls of fabric, a sewing machine pushed against the wall, half-finished dresses and shirts stashed in a basket in one corner. Jaskier’s admiring a pale blue doublet embroidered with golden thread, trailing his fingers over it gently.

“She was talented,” he says, not looking up when Geralt walks into the room.

“Hmm.” He doesn’t know much about sewing and embroidering, but if the gold and silver thread is anything to go by, then she was good enough to make a decent living, and good enough to have the elite as her customers.

He walks over to one of the tables against the wall, gently shifting the papers full of drawings and designs, when he notices a few golden hairs on the wood. There’s only two or three of them, and they don’t look as if they’ve been ripped out – they look more like they simply fell from someone’s head while they were working here.

When he inspects a basket full of squares and samples of cloth, he finds more golden hairs, and when he looks through the rest of the house – the bedroom, bathroom, living room – he finds even more.

He’ll have to ask Magalie just to be sure, but it seems that those golden hairs belonged to Annona, meaning that the clump he found in the kitchen does, too – and by extent, the blood on the knife.

He sighs, hope deflating in his chest. If it hadn’t been Annona’s, he could’ve used the blood on the knife and the clump of hair to find her killer, but he’s in no such luck.

After another quick once-over through the house, during which they find nothing, they start making their way outside again.

In the middle of the hall, though, Jaskier bends down, pushing a toppled table to the side, retrieving something from the soil and shards of pottery on the floor. He brushes it clean, holding it in his palm, and Geralt takes a step closer to look at it.

It’s a necklace, a simple, silver chain with a pale, blue gem hanging from it.

“Reckon this was hers?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.

“Probably.”

Jaskier pockets it. “I’ve got a feeling Magalie might want it.”

“Hmm.” He turns around again, following Jaskier out of the house, closing the ruined front door behind him as best as he can.

_._

On their way out of town, to the farms that lie west of the forest surrounding White Bridge, they pass a pigeoneer, and Geralt stops in his tracks. Jaskier looks at him questioningly.

“That other Witcher that was supposedly here a while ago…”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, brows knitted together, “what about him?”

He reaches for his coin purse, starts counting out the amount needed to pay for a letter to be delivered, the prices listed on a board outside the humble house, right underneath a cage of cooing pigeons.

“I’m going to write Vesemir, ask him if he knows anything about it. He usually has a way to contact the others.”

Jaskier nods, walking to the cage and poking his finger through the bars, before pulling it back when a pigeon tries to peck at it. “Right, makes sense.”

“Hmm. I’ll be right back.”

The pigeoneer is reluctant to send one of his birds all the way to Kaer Morgen, but he’s eventually convinced when Geralt lays a few extra coins on the counter. He’s handed a piece of paper, a pen, and some ink, and he’s left alone to write his message.

“ _Vesemir,”_ he writes, “ _Jaskier and I are in White Bridge for a Slyzard, but we found out there is no monster. These are murders. We also heard there was another Witcher here a while ago, though how long it’s been and who it was, we don’t know. Can you find out more about this?_

  * _”_



He rolls the piece of paper up tightly, stuffing it into a small, metal tube. The pigeoneer returns with a bird on his arm, and ties the tube around its leg, before walking outside again.

By the time Geralt’s joined him, the pigeon is already high up in the air, and he watches it fly north.

“Right. Let’s get going again, then?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods, setting out towards the west.

_._

A kind farmer points them to a house, not far from the woods that surround White Bridge, and tells them it belongs to the last remaining family of the third and latest victim, Axel of Dorian.

When Geralt and Jaskier get there, the farm is seemingly abandoned, though there are a few horses grazing in the fields. The place seems abandoned and neglected- the vegetable garden overgrown, the windows dirty, some of the roof tiles blown away by the harsh autumn wind, revealing the wooden beams underneath.

“It’s too quiet here,” Jaskier whispers, as they walk up to the front door. “Where is everyone? The farmer said there were still people here, right?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, but simply knocks on the door, startling a few birds sitting in the gutter, sending them flying into the air. He listens intently for a heartbeat or a voice, but can’t find any signs of life except for himself, Jaskier, and the horses in the field.

He knocks again, though, a bit louder this time, the sound shattering the silence like a glass would a mirror, his ears ringing in the aftermath.

This time, he hears a faint “Come in!” from somewhere inside the house.

He tries the door handle, finding it unlocked, and he pushes the door open, sending clouds of dust billowing up in the air.

Beyond the door lies a small kitchen, a flight of stairs to their right leading to the second floor of the farm house. There’s a pile of dirty dishes sitting in the sink, at least a few weeks old, some of them already gathering mould. A layer of dust covers every piece of furniture, and he can tell no one’s cleaned this place since Axel died – if not longer. Hell, it almost even seems like no one’s _been_ here, except to put the dirty dishes on top of the ever-growing pile in the sink.

He turns his head this way and that, finally hearing a faint and slow heartbeat coming from upstairs, and he motions with his head for Jaskier to follow him.

The stairs are old and rickety, two shallow trails worn into the wood by thousands of footsteps, creaking as he and Jaskier make their way up. They find themselves on a small landing and he listens again, following the heartbeat into a small room at the end of the hall, looking out over the back of the farm and the woods that surround White Bridge, the dark hints of the rooftops visible in the distance.

There’s an old man sitting in a wheelchair next to the window, skin wrinkled and withered with age, once bright green eyes a bit hazy with time. He turns his trembling head when he hears Geralt and Jaskier enter.

“H… hello.” He doesn’t sound frightened, despite the two strange men in his room, the lavender hints of curiosity filtering through the dusty air.

Geralt nods at him. “Good afternoon. I’m Geralt of Rivia.” He nods at Jaskier, who steps forward to shake the man’s trembling hand. “My companion, Jaskier.”

The man smiles softly, nodding a bit. “Ah… G- Geralt of Rivia. I have h… heard of you b… before. The b… Butcher of Blaviken. You must be as o… old as I am.”

Geralt has to strain to discern what the man’s saying, his words slow and slurred through the few teeth he still has, the constant shaking not helping, either.

He nods, though, and sits down on the edge of the bed on the other side of the room when the man motions to it. “Are you Axel’s father?”

The man laughs. “G… goodness, no! I am t… too old to be his f… father. He was my grandson.”

“His parents died, then.” The man nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Axel’s grandfather waves his hand dismissively. “L… long time ago. It’s A… Axel I’m grieving, now. Good l… lad. Terrible shame w… what happened to him.”

“Can you tell us what happened that night?”

The man looks out the window again, his already hazy eyes growing even more distant, lost in memories of barely three weeks ago.

“He… went outside, to check on the… the…” he points a shaky and crooked finger out of the window “horses. As always. I don’t n… know what happened, then, but I th… think he heard something.” He waves his hand again, flicking it towards the window. “Into the w… woods he w… went.” He leans back in his chair, looks at the wall opposite him, bitter almond grief filling the room. “Never returned.”

“Is someone taking care of you?” Jaskier pipes up, and the man nods.

“Neighbour. L… lovely lady. Brings me f… food. Her b… boy takes care of the h… horses.”

“Is there nowhere else for you to go, good sir? Surely, you can’t spend the rest of your days alone in this room.”

Axel’s grandfather smiles. “Y… you’re a good lad, but I don’t h… have long left. I can f… feel it in my bones.” He turns his head again, eyes on the forest his grandson disappeared into. “Soon, we’ll be t… together again.”

It’s clear that the conversation is over, so they bid their farewells, heading back to the stairs. Geralt casts one look into the room as he closes the door, at the old man still sitting at the window, looking at the woods, seemingly at peace.

As Geralt reaches the foot of the stairs, the weak heartbeat above them stops.

_._

It’s nearly dark already by the time their feet meet the cobblestones of the roads of White Bridge, but as much as Geralt would love to go straight to the inn for warmth and a hot meal, there’s still one last thing he has to do.

The large brick house is the same as he remembers from the night before, though this time there _is_ life to be detected behind the window in the upper right corner: light spilling through the panes, a bit dimmed by the curtains sheltering whoever’s inside from the cold that’s kissing the glass.

He knocks on the door, once, twice, and waits as he hears heavy footfalls approaching them. Eventually, the door opens, revealing a large man dressed in fine clothing, a golden chain around his neck. The alderman.

The man looks at them, a flash of disgust crossing his face, the scent of mould filtering into the ink and wine around him. He folds his thin lips into a pleasant smile, though, and steps aside. “Witcher. I was expecting you.” The smell of mould grows strong enough for Geralt to nearly choke on it when the alderman looks at Jaskier. “And who may this be?”

Jaskier doesn’t show the annoyance that Geralt can smell on him, but bows with a flourish instead. “Jaskier the bard, at your service! I’m Geralt’s travelling companion.”

The alderman raises his eyebrows. “So you two travel together, hmm? Never heard of an arrangement like that before.”

Jaskier smiles again. “I do pride myself in traversing the road less travelled.”

“Right.” The alderman doesn’t sound impressed, and simply turns, motioning for them to follow him with a flick of his wrist as he makes his way towards the back of the house.

Soon, they find themselves in a large office, the alderman seated behind a grand mahogany desk, intricately carved and well-polished, his stubby fingers intertwined in front of him as his steely eyes regard Geralt and Jaskier with disinterest.

There’s a large portrait of the alderman hanging above the fireplace behind the man himself, presumably made when he was younger – his hair still black, his face still completely smooth and pleasant, no sign of the stubble he’s got now. A golden plaque underneath it announces his name: _Yalculm Covri._

His eyes drift back to the alderman as he feels his heavy gaze on him. They simply stare at each other for a while, neither of them speaking, neither of them willing to budge under the other’s scrutiny.

Eventually, it’s the alderman who breaks. “So, Witcher, I assume you’re here for payment?”

He gives his most non-committal “Hmm”. He’s not here for the money, he’s here to find out more about the other Witcher that may or may not have been here, and why the problem still isn’t taken care of. Granted, it’s not a monster, but surely the other Witcher would’ve returned the money, then.

Just because they’re mutants doesn’t mean they don’t have morals.

Yalculm looks at his desk, rearranging a few golden trinkets to his own liking. “I’m not going to pay you, _Butcher._ ” Geralt ignores the sudden burnt food-anger that he can smell coming from Jaskier. “There was a Witcher here to take care of the problem ten months ago. He took the money and left without any proof that he actually defeated the monster. And look where we are now: three more victims.”

Though his confident attitude would suggest otherwise, the alderman is lying through his teeth. Geralt can smell the rotten apple-scent of guilt, can hear the man’s heavy heartbeat rising as he speaks, can see the slight trembling of Yalculm’s fingers.

Thing is, though: he doesn’t know which part of it is a lie. Or if all of it is. And he’s in no position to call the man out on it.

He’ll have to check at the inn with Bjorn and Magalie, see if they can remember anything about this other Witcher.

“Ten months ago?” he asks, and the alderman nods. “So the first victim died ten months ago, and then three more people died in the last four months?”

The alderman nods again. “No need to sound so disbelieving, Butcher.” More anger coming from Jaskier.

“How do you know it’s the same monster?”

“Because the first victim died in the same manner as the other three.” This time he isn’t lying, and Geralt has to focus all his attention on not looking as confused as he feels. Something’s not right, here, but he knows he won’t be able to find out more. Not tonight.

He nods at the alderman. “Fine. I will find the monster and kill it, no payment necessary.”

Yalculm smiles. “There’s a good lad,” he says condescendingly, and Geralt can smell another wave of burnt food-anger coming from Jaskier.

He turns around, right as Jaskier opens his mouth, his hand clamping around the bard’s upper arm in warning, using it to drag him out of the room. “Don’t,” he hisses, and Jaskier snaps his mouth shut, still angry but following Geralt out of the office without kicking up a fuss.

He lets go once they’re on the street, and Jaskier starts muttering things under his breath that sound suspiciously like insults directed at the alderman.

Geralt sighs, turning around to close the front door, but his eye is caught by movement at the top of the stairs that lead to the first floor of the house. He squints, but can’t see anything in the darkness that engulfs the upper few steps and the hallway that lies beyond.

He shakes the unease off his shoulders, and closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!
> 
> Again, please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a long one, y'all! Trust me, I didn't plan for it to turn out this long; I just wrote this story as one, big whole and seperated it into chapters where it made sense. The other ones won't be this long, I promise. (Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, that's up to you guys.)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

Darkness has fallen well and truly by the time they’re back at the Sweet Loaf.

Geralt pays Roach a quick visit, brushing her down and treating her to a sugar cube, making sure she’s comfortable and happy. The box Bjorn has put her in is quite spacious, she’s got oats to keep her belly full, and she seems to be doing really well, overall. She doesn’t even head-butt Geralt’s shoulder like she usually does when they’ve been somewhere too long for her liking and she’s getting restless.

So, he bids her goodnight and goes back inside.

He finds Jaskier at the table in the corner of the room with two plates of food in front of them. Once again, the tavern is completely empty, save from the old man sitting in the corner.

This time the man _is_ awake and Geralt can see from the redness of his full nose that he’s no stranger to alcohol, the pint of ale on the table proving Geralt’s point. Still, even though the man is awake, he’s barely conscious, bleary eyes fixed on the wall opposite him, unmoving, unseeing, unfeeling.

The man is drinking his sorrows away. Geralt’s seen it far too often for his liking but that’s the way things are: grass is green, the sky is blue, and people try to drown their feelings.

He can’t help but once again notice that a tavern normally wouldn’t be this empty in a town as big and wealthy as this one – it should be filled with people, laughter, and the stink of sweat and booze and pheromones. But, just like the rest of the town, this place is empty.

Now that he thinks about it, he realizes he’s barely seen anyone outside during the day, either. Whether it’s because of the cold or because of the monster people still believe to be in the woods, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that it sends unpleasant shivers down his spine.

His attention is drawn away from his spiralling thoughts when Jaskier pushes one of the plates towards Geralt. “So, how’s Roach doing?”

“Fine.”

Jaskier yawns, hiding his face in his upper arm as his forkful of food hovers in the air uselessly for a couple of seconds. “Good, that’s good. So what do we do next? How do we find this killer?” he says in a low voice. Geralt shrugs, and Jaskier rolls his eyes, his fork falling into his plate. “Oh, come on, you must have _some_ idea about how to catch a murderer. I mean, you’ve done this before, right?”

Geralt shakes his head, pushing the food on his plate around a bit. “Not really. Usually when people say there’s a monster, there’s a monster. And if not, it’s just bandits”

Jaskier gapes at him, before snapping his mouth shut, looking away. “Well, shit.”

“Hmm.”

They eat in silence for a while, trying to think of what to do next, but Geralt comes up empty-handed, and Jaskier appears to be out of ideas as well.

Afterwards, they go upstairs where Geralt cleans his swords. They’re not dirty – after all, they haven’t even been used in days – but he needs something to do with his hands, something to clear his mind.

Jaskier sits on the bed, lute in his lap, pen in his hand, notebook next to him, eyes on the wall. He doesn’t write a single word for nearly an hour.

Eventually, Geralt starts pulling on his armour, strapping his swords to his back, shaking Jaskier from his reverie in the process.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going back into the woods.”

“Why?”

He’s finished with his swords and walks to the small desk in the corner of the room to pull on his leather gloves. “To make everyone think I’m still hunting the monster. And to find out more from the crime scenes, see if I missed something yesterday.”

Jaskier nods with a contemplative frown, tapping his pen against his pursed lips. It leaves a small ink stain on his skin, and Geralt resists the urge to walk to the bed and wipe it away with his thumb. Instead, he looks at his feet, flexing his fingers a few times, the leather gloves creaking as he does so.

He looks up again when Jaskier yawns and he can’t help but notice the hint of darkness under those blue eyes. “Don’t wait up.”

Jaskier grins at him, bright as ever. “We both know I will.”

He considers arguing for a few seconds, considers telling Jaskier that he should definitely just go to sleep, since there’s nothing dangerous in the woods, nothing that can seriously hurt Geralt, and he’ll be back soon. But then he remembers the last twenty-something years he’s spent with Jaskier and realizes that there’s no use in arguing with the bard, so he shrugs and turns around, heading out the door.

_._

He heads north first, for the second night in a row.

Once again the streets of White Bridge are empty, the strong breeze sending fallen leaves rustling over the cobblestones. The sky is clear, the moon almost half-full, nearing its first quarter, its light lighting Geralt’s way.

In the north, at the first murder site, he once again bends over the ashes but instead of simply trailing his fingers through it, he wipes it to the side to see if there’s anything hidden underneath – though he highly doubts it, since most of the ashes have been blown away over the past few months.

Still, can’t hurt to try.

He finds nothing, unsurprisingly, and rises again. Just like the previous night, he starts walking around the murder site in larger and larger circles, but this time, instead of looking ahead to try and find a monster lair, he looks at the ground in front of his feet.

And this time, he notices something to the west of the first murder site, about a mile from town as well. A patch of earth that, underneath the strong scent of soil and moss and rotting leaves, smells like ashes and blood.

He crouches down, wiping the leaves away and digging his fingers into the earth before bringing them to his nose.

There it is again, a bit stronger this time, now that he’s pushed through the upper layer of the forest floor – ashes, sharp and familiar, tingling in his nose, combined with the unmistakable copper scent of blood.

He doesn’t really know how old this murder site is, but he’s certain that it is indeed that: a murder site.

Of course, it could be that someone held a bonfire here. But it would be quite a coincidence that it’s about a mile from town – just as the three other sites are. And not a lot of bonfires end up with so much blood spilled into the soil that he can still smell it months later – because it’s definitely been here for months, at this point. It had to be to get covered with a layer of moss and dirt, for it to go unnoticed until closer inspection.

He sits back on his heels, mind racing.

There’s another victim. He doesn’t know who they are or how long it’s been since they died – maybe a year, maybe longer. Long enough for no one to connect this death with the other three.

Or maybe someone did. Maybe they don’t want to tell it, for some unknown reason. Though it would seem likely that, if someone were to be found in the woods, burned to death, people would remember it.

So maybe they didn’t find this victim. But where would the body be, then? Why would the killer hide this victim but leave the other three in the woods for the townspeople to find? And why would they wait months after killing this person to kill someone else?

None of it makes sense, and he digs the heel of his hand into his forehead in frustration, a sharp, throbbing ache right above his left eyebrow muddling his mind. There are too many questions and he doesn’t have any idea on how to even _begin_ answering them.

Eventually, though, after raking through the leaves one last time, he gets up again. There’s nothing else for him to find here.

He starts walking around the small clearing in larger and larger circles, eyes trained on the ground below his feet, but he doesn’t see anything else out of the ordinary.

So, he heads to the second murder site – or, well, the _third,_ as it now turns out to be.

Ashes and dirt on his leather glove, the smell of blood not as poignant here as it was at the murder site in the west, and he wonders if that’s what made the difference: the fact that there’s a lot of blood at the oldest one, and nearly none here. Maybe the killer slit the victim’s throat the very first time before burning them. Maybe he was trying out different techniques before settling on fire once and for all, killing his next three victims in a short span of time because he’s so sure of himself.

Or maybe he’s escalating. Maybe the first murder sated him for a while but when he killed his second victim, it wasn’t the same – wasn’t _enough._ So the time between the murders shortened in a desperate attempt to satisfy his urges.

But that would mean that the next murder could come _very_ soon. Meaning that Geralt has to hurry up, has to find the killer before he can strike again.

When the second – now third – murder site doesn’t give him any new information, he heads back to the town, once again intending on walking through White Bridge to get to the south side of the forest more quickly.

He changes his mind, though, and turns on his heels, goes back to the first murder site from nearly a year ago.

From there, he heads to the east, to the one from four months ago, and then to the one from three months ago. He notices once again that they’re all about a mile from town, and continues from there, keeping White Bridge to his right, walking around it in a large circle, eyes focused on the ground, breathing deeply to scent for ashes or blood.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t find anything, and before soon, he’s southeast of the town, at the most recent crime scene.

He sighs, crouching down again and wiping away the ashes. The scent of burnt flesh is sharp and heady in his nose but as much as he pushes his fingers into the soil, he can barely smell any blood – about the same amount as with the other two more recent murders, not as much as with the very first.

He stands up straight, looking around again.

Axel, the latest victim, had a farm west of the forest surrounding White Bridge. His murder site is to the southeast. Quite a long way for a young man to walk all on his own in the middle of the night – especially with his elderly grandfather waiting for him in the farmhouse.

Something must’ve caught his attention. But what could be so important or interesting to warrant a miles-long walk all the way to here? Why would he do that? And why would his killer lure him all the way here, of all places? There’s nothing remotely remarkable or noticeably different about this small clearing, so why would the murderer go to all this trouble?

Once again, he doesn’t know how to even begin answering these questions and the sharp, throbbing pain above his left eyebrow intensifies.

For the next hour or so, he walks around in ever larger circles around the murder site, finally giving up when he meets the first houses of White Bridge. He contemplates going to the west side of the woods, continue his circle all the way back to the very first ring of ashes, but decides against it for now.

After all, he’s probably going to have to keep up appearances for a while until they find the murderer, pretend at least a few more days that he’s looking for a monster – so he’ll be back here tomorrow night, anyways.

And besides, he knows Jaskier’s waiting up for him and it’s already well past midnight. If he wants Jaskier to get at least a few hours of sleep, he’ll have to go back to the Sweet Loaf now.

So he makes his way back through the quiet forest, the cold autumn breeze rifling through his hair, making the leaves strewn around him whisper. An owl hoots nearby and when he looks up, he can see its silhouette against the half full moon.

First quarter, Geralt’s mind supplies to him, memories of that one night in Kaer Morhen surfacing in his head.

He remembers it clearly, still, even after all these years. Sitting there, huddled with the others under too few blankets, trying to stay awake as the cold mountain air nibbled at his ears and nose, the teacher’s droning effectively managing to lull him back to sleep – only waking up when the man gave him a gentle smack to the back of his head, interrogating him about the phases of the moon and the ways he can use the stars to navigate his path.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that night. It was the last one before the Trials, the last time they were all together.

Now, of that entire group of twenty-three boys, only Eskel and Geralt remain.

Still, he remembers the other boys, remembers their faces, their hushed whispers, their drooping eyes. He remembers them every time he looks up at the moon and recognizes its phase, every time he uses the stars to guide his way.

He remembers. He can’t forget.

_._

Jaskier’s asleep by the time Geralt sneaks into their room. He’s half-slumped, laying sideways over the pillows, notebook next to him, lute on the bed.

He probably fell asleep waiting for Geralt, and worry sparks in Geralt’s chest.

When they’d first met, it had surprised him how little Jaskier needed to sleep. He’d expected the bard to be a pillow princess, given his royal background, but Jaskier can stay awake through half the night, wake up at the crack of dawn, and still walk all day and perform in the evening while only showing the slightest hints of exhaustion – though complaining the entire time nonetheless.

So this? This isn’t like Jaskier at all: to fall asleep while waiting for Geralt to return, two nights in a row.

It worries him, and when he’s done quietly taking his armour off and undressing to his smallclothes, he walks to the bed, putting the notebook on the nightstand and setting the lute down in the corner, before gently pressing the back of his hand against Jaskier’s forehead. He feels cold, colder than Geralt knows humans are supposed to be. But he’s also lying in a very cold room, barely covered by the sheets.

Jaskier stirs, blinking up at Geralt. “Hey,” he slurs, still half-asleep, “find anything?”

Geralt can’t help but smile, resisting the urge to wipe the hair off of Jaskier’s forehead, to trail his fingers down and cup his cheek. “No,” he lies. He’ll tell Jaskier about the old murder in the morning, when it can’t keep the bard awake for the rest of the night. “Only you, hogging all the pillows.”

Jaskier huffs, and shuffles down the bed until he’s fully under the covers, leaving the other side to Geralt.

He blows out the last candle, sliding beneath the sheets next to Jaskier, who’s started to shiver. “Bollocks, it’s cold,” he mutters, words blurring together.

Geralt knows it’s coming before it happens, but doesn’t do anything to stop it.

Jaskier shifts, laying his head on Geralt’s shoulder, slinging his arm across the Witcher’s chest and pressing his cold feet against Geralt’s calves, making him shiver a bit at the sudden ice spreading across his skin.

He puts his arm around Jaskier, pulling him close, rubbing some warmth into his shoulder as Jaskier’s breathing starts to deepen and even out, falling asleep again.

Something warm spreads in his chest. It’s been a while since Jaskier huddled close to him for warmth – not since the mountain.

They haven’t done a lot of things since the mountain, still: Jaskier hasn’t bought him any trinkets on a market in a nobody town, hasn’t written a song about him, and Geralt hasn’t apologised.

Well, he _did,_ but only sort of. Not properly.

He remembers the dingy inn he’d been staying at in Novigrad. He’d been in the city for a Selkiemore that had been terrorizing the beaches, making the little shops and restaurants along the shores lose their last business of the summer months, the livelihood that was supposed to be able to carry them through the winter gone.

He’d made quick work of the monster, earning him a fair amount of coin and many thanks, something he wasn’t really used to. Still, he’d chosen an inn at the outskirts of the city to spend the night at – after all, he’s always been less likely to get strange looks at places like that than at the fancy inns in the city centre.

Which is why he’d been all the more surprised when he’d smelled familiar blueberries and cinnamon, looking up to see Jaskier standing right in front of him.

He’d been searching for the bard for a while at that point, but for all the rumours about Jaskier’s whereabouts that held a grain of truth, there were a dozen that were just plain wrong, sending the Witcher on wild goose chases that eventually led to nowhere. Last he’d heard, Jaskier had been in Brugge, and that rumour had been weeks old.

But there he was, right in front of him. Jaskier’s usually so alert blue eyes had been glazed over a bit, and Geralt couldn’t help but eye the cup of wine in the bard’s hand, wondering how many he’d had before he’d approached Geralt.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered were the hurtful things he’d said to Jaskier on the mountain, words he’d said in anger, words he’d never meant in the first place – not really. Words he’d regretted as soon as they’d left his mouth.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry. For everything.”

He’d looked at his dearest friend, steeling himself for anger, for the harsh words he deserved, or the cold shoulder he perhaps deserved even more.

But none of that came. Instead, Jaskier had inclined his head, and had looked at Geralt for a second or two.

“Jaskier…”

“I want to travel together again, if that’s alright with you.”

He’d frowned at that, confusion swirling through his mind like the wine in Jaskier’s cup. “I… of course, but Jaskier, I really am sorry-“

Jaskier had waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, you’ve already said that. Shall we leave in the morning, then?”

He’d expected a lot of things, but he certainly hadn’t expected _that._ But, well, gift horse and all that. “Sure. Shall we head east? I’ll be closer to Kaer Morhen when the winter comes, and there are more contracts there. I’ll let you come along on a hunt if-“

“Actually, I want to head south, to Vizima.”

Geralt had frowned again, but had nodded. Usually, Jaskier didn’t have a destination in mind when travelling together, but Geralt surely wasn’t going to deny him anything at that moment, especially not when he’d just gotten him back. So, he’d nodded again, and had mentally rearranged his plans for the next few weeks to include Vizima.

And they’d left the next day. Jaskier had been short with him and had walked with purpose, a glaze still over his blue eyes, as if his mind was elsewhere entirely.

But everything’s alright, now. Well, except for the fact that they never made it to Vizima, but Jaskier hasn’t mentioned it since, so Geralt’s sure he doesn’t mind much. And he’s acting normal again, which is also a relief. Sure, he still seems hurt from time to time, but Geralt’s vowed to himself to at least _show_ Jaskier how sorry he is – words could never express his regret.

And maybe the past will catch up with him one day. Maybe Jaskier will remember the pain Geralt caused him over those twenty years and maybe he decides he deserves better – which, in all honesty, _he does._ Maybe he will yell at Geralt then, or leave him behind forever.

He just hopes that moment never comes.

But for now, he lets himself have this, lets himself bask in the warmth of Jaskier’s body pressed against his side as he slowly feels himself drifting off to sleep, the first rays of dawn only a few hours away.

_._

He tries his best to ignore the quiet chatter and soft giggles on the other side of the room as he pushes his eggs around on his plate, his appetite ruined by the sickly sweet melon-scent of lust reaching his nose.

He briefly glances up at Bjorn and the woman leaning against the counter, her brown curls falling over her shoulders in waves, a soft, secretive smile on her lips as she trails her fingers down Bjorn’s arm. Bjorn, in turn, twirls one of her brown locks between his fingers, occasionally brushing her cheek gently.

Geralt looks down at his breakfast again, tries not to scowl at his eggs as his hand tightens around his fork. He doesn’t know why he takes offense to these two so much, but the softness he sees in their eyes as they look at each other, the fleeting touches of skin on skin, the sweet words whispered in the space between them – they all make something ugly and bitter claw at his chest and he desperately tries to push away the blue eyes he sees every time he closes his own.

Eventually, the woman takes the basket she’s brought with her, filled to the brim with vegetables, and takes a step back, winking at Bjorn.

“Can you help me put these in the kitchen?” she asks innocently and the innkeeper gives her a broad grin, extending his arm for her to take. Together, they disappear behind the door that leads to the kitchen, Magalie stepping out shortly afterwards, rolling her eyes and dusting the flour off of her hands.

“Those two,” she mutters, smiling briefly at Geralt.

“Who is she?”

Magalie casts a look at the kitchen door before she turns to the counter, scribbling down some things in a notebook. “That’s Jente. She grows fruits and vegetables in her garden to provide for her kids.”

He feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Magalie sees the look he gives her and laughs, shaking her head.

“It’s not like that, Witcher. Her husband died four years ago. She and Bjorn have been… seeing each other for a few months, now. They think they’re being secretive but-“ she grins, shaking her head a bit “well… you can see how subtle they are about this.”

He can’t help but smile at that. “Hmm.”

She leans her elbow on the counter, chin in her hand. “What about you and the bard?”

He frowns. “What about us?”

“You two… friends?”

“Hmm.”

She narrows her blue eyes at him, before her face breaks out into a wide grin. “Oh, I see how it is.”

Before he gets the chance to respond – though he’s not sure what his response _would_ be – the door to the kitchen opens again, Jente stumbling out with a smile, the fresh spring grass of happiness reaching Geralt’s nose, her hair tousled and her lips swollen and pink. She acknowledges Geralt and Magalie with a nod, who nod back, before she makes her way out of the door with her now empty basket.

Geralt can hear Bjorn chopping wood outside, the innkeeper whistling to himself as he does so.

_._

He looks up when Jaskier sits down opposite him, half an hour later, rubbing at his eyes and yawning loudly. “Morning, Geralt.”

“Morning.”

He watches as Jaskier stretches, joints popping before he lets out a content little sound, slumping in his chair. “So, what are we going to do today?”

Geralt shrugs. “Not sure. We should get you breakfast first, at least.”

Jaskier cocks his head. “You had breakfast without me?”

He presses his lips together, guilt creeping up on him. “I woke up two hours ago. I thought you’d be down sooner.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault, huh?”

His hand comes up of its own accord to rub at the back of his neck, the touch of it grounding him. “I- no, of course not. I’m sorry, I’ll wait next time.”

He looks up after a few seconds of silence to see Jaskier staring at him, his usually so alert and vivid eyes flat and hazy.

“Jaskier?”

The bard blinks, and suddenly he’s back to his old self, though he looks a bit confused. “G- Geralt. Hi.”

“H- hi?”

Jaskier’s stomach grumbles and he scoffs lightly, shaking his head as he smiles. “Gods, I’m hungry.” He points his thumb at the kitchen door. “I’m going to get some breakfast. Do you want some, too?”

He blinks in confusion but shakes his head. “No, thank you. I… already ate.”

“Oh, good! I’ll be right back.” And with that, he’s gone, knocking on the kitchen door before he opens it, chatting with Magalie as she prepares his breakfast, quite back to his usual self.

But Geralt can’t help but feel uneasy- feel something crawling at the back of his neck, when he remembers Jaskier’s harsh tone and hazy eyes. Surely, it’s nothing – probably the fatigue getting to him.

It’s probably nothing.

It’s nothing.

“Oh, my lovely Magalie! We forgot something yesterday,” he hears Jaskier say through the open door, before the soft clink of a metal chain unfurling reaches his ears. “We found this in Annona’s house. We thought you’d might want to have it.”

Right, the necklace. Geralt had forgotten about it.

“Gods,” he hears Magalie breathe out, the scent of salty tears prickling in his nose. “Wh- where’d you find it?”

“In her house. The chain’s broken, but I’m sure it’s an easy fix.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.” He hears the rustling of clothes on clothes, Magalie probably hugging Jaskier. The dull _patpatpat_ of Jaskier’s hand on her back.

“Really no problem, love.”

“Don’t call me ‘love’, boy.” Despite the tears he still hears in her voice, he can also hear her joy. “Gods,” she mutters. “I gave this to her on her fifteenth birthday because it matched the colour of her eyes almost exactly.” Bitter almond grief hits his nostrils. “She was like a sister to me. We practically grew up together – both only children, our parents all too busy working to provide for us to pay much attention to us. She’s been my best friend since the beginning, and now…”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jaskier mutters. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

A shaky inhale. “I’m just… really glad you found it. I should probably go to her house at some point, get all of the things I want to keep. I just… haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.”

“I understand, darling-”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me, bard.”

“-you might want to hurry, though. The lock on the door is broken.”

A beat of silence. “I thought I gave you a key.”

Jaskier stammers a bit. “Ah- well, you see… you _did._ But uh…” Geralt closes his eyes, hand clenching around the edge of the table. _Don’t screw this up, Jask. Don’t make her suspicious._ “We… don’t know… what happened.”

“Hmm.” She’s suspicious. “Right.” _Fuck._

Jaskier laughs nervously in the silence that follows, and Geralt’s about to get up and interrupt, change the subject, when Magalie speaks again.

“Anyways, here’s your breakfast.”

“Ah! Thank you, my lovely.”

“Bard,” she warns.

“Right, yeah, of course. No ‘lovely’, and no ‘darling’.” Jaskier laughs nervously again, closing the door behind him as he dashes out of the kitchen.

He lets himself fall down in the chair opposite Geralt again.

“That went well,” the bard mutters.

“Hmm.”

“Alright, yeah, it really did not but… I didn’t know what else to say!” He sighs theatrically around his forkful of eggs. “Gods, now she’s suspicious.”

“Hmm.”

“Should… should we tell her? I mean, she already knows something’s going on, and if we’re going to solve this thing, we need someone who knows this town. And I, for one, trust her more than I trust anyone else in this wretched place.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier’s right. They need someone who’s an insider, someone who can provide them the knowledge they need, and someone they can trust not to tell anyone else about this.

As much as he hates to burden her with this knowledge, they have to tell her.

Jaskier nods once before he gets up, taking his still half-full plate of eggs in hand, blue eyes contemplative. “I’ll go get her. Do… do you want to tell her or should I?”

“You.”

Jaskier smiles, thought his rapid heartbeat and the salt and metal in his scent betray his nervousness. “Yeah, I figured that much.”

_._

Magalie stares at them, blue eyes wide and disbelieving, mouth slightly agape. They wait for her reaction, giving her time to process everything Jaskier’s just told her – it is a lot to take in all at once, Geralt knows.

“So,” she eventually says, voice slow and contemplative, “there is no monster.”

“Not of the inhuman kind, no,” Jaskier says.

“Annona was murdered. Taken from her house and… murdered.”

“And so were the others.” Jaskier makes a face, tilting his head from side to side. “Or, well, at least the murdered part of that. As far as we know, none of the others were taken from their homes. Axel just sort of… walked into the woods, and Julie…” He shrugs. “Well, we don’t know what happened to Julie yet.”

Magalie sits there for a while, staring at the wall. “So… a serial killer. Who’s killed three times already-“

“Four.” Jaskier and Magalie look at Geralt, both frowning.

Jaskier’s the first to speak: “What?”

Geralt shrugs and scratches at the back of his neck, uncomfortable now that he’s at the centre of attention. “Last night, I found another clearing where there were ashes. There was also a lot of blood, there, but it was old.”

“How old are we speaking, here, Geralt? And why the hell didn’t you tell me?” He flinches a bit at the anger in Jaskier’s voice, the scent of burnt food reaching his nose.

“It was the middle of the night,” he mutters, “and you needed your rest. I thought it could wait until morning.”

Jaskier glares at him, nails digging into his palms, shoulders tense. “That wasn’t your decision to _make,_ Geralt.”

He sighs, frustrated guilt clawing at his chest. “What was I supposed to say? ‘ _I found something interesting, but do you want to sleep or do you want to hear it now’?”_

“Yes!”

“Jaskier-“

“Enough, you two!” Magalie snaps, looking between the both of them, her voice loud and commanding and disapproving. “Now is not the time to fight. Witcher, how old was the murder site?”

He shrugs again, anger abating a bit. “More than ten months, maybe a year.”

“A year…” she muses, chewing on her bottom lip for a few seconds. “A year?” Suddenly, her eyes widen, mouth opening in shock. “Theo.”

Jaskier frowns, the last of the anger disappearing from his cinnamon and blueberries scent, replaced by confusion and curiosity. “Who’s Theo?”

She blinks, shaking her head a bit. “A shepherd. He lived a little bit out of town, to the west, beyond the farms, even. He used to let his sheep graze on the grass on the river banks.” She frowns. “Annona always bought her wool from him,” she whispers.

“What happened to him?” Geralt asks.

“He disappeared. About a year ago. One day, they found his sheep at the farms, and he was just… gone. They said it was a pack of Drowners that got him, in the end.” She gasps. “The Witcher! I remember him, now! He came here about a year ago and took care of those Drowners. But they never did find Theo’s body.”

“Did you see this Witcher? Hear his name?”

She sighs, shaking her head. “No, unfortunately not. He didn’t stay long, no more than a day. Didn’t even find out he was here until I overhead the alderman talking about it with Edrevod a few days later.”

Geralt frowns. “Edrevod?”

She nods, flicking her wrist to her left, to the north side of town. “The mage. He lives a few streets away, not that far from the alderman. White house, red door. Can’t miss it.”

He exchanges a look with Jaskier. “Right, thank you.” He gets up, the other two following suit. “We’ll pay him a visit.”

Magalie nods. “I’ll go find the locksmith, get him to fix Annona’s door.”

“Joerie might be able to fix that necklace for you, too,” Jaskier offers, and Magalie nods again, a blush creeping up her neck.

“I’ll visit him, as well,” she mutters, bitter almond grief stirring through the air. He ignores it.

“Meet back here this afternoon?” Jaskier asks. “Maybe we can see if we can find common ground between the victims.”

“Hmm.”

“Agreed,” Magalie says, before walking to the bar, retrieving her heavy winter cloak and pulling it over her shoulders. She gives them a curt nod and heads out of the door.

Geralt gets their cloaks out of their room, and they make their way outside as well.

_._

The autumn morning is crisp and bright, the cloudless sky the colour of Jaskier’s eyes, though Geralt can see a few clouds gathering in the distance. If they’re unlucky, there’ll be a storm, soon – which is the last thing they need.

The wind has certainly picked up over the past few days and it nips at their ears and noses, turning them red, chasing leaves upon leaves through the cobblestone streets, branches clattering together in the woods surrounding the town.

They walk through the winding streets, to the north, past the alderman’s house. Jaskier’s shivering next to him and Geralt resists the urge to pull him close.

They find the mage’s house soon enough – just as Magalie said: painted white, with a red door. It’s halfway between the town centre and the outskirts, the houses here not that big but still quite luxurious. Though, for a mage, quite humble still.

He knocks on the door, waiting as he hears shuffling coming from inside. Eventually, the red door opens, revealing a thin man with scraggly salt-and-pepper hair, face slightly sunken and tired. Geralt frowns. The man certainly doesn’t have the appearance of a mage.

But appearances can be deceiving; Geralt can smell the ozone and lightning of magic hanging around the man.

“Edrevod?”

The man nods, pulling his silk robe closer around himself to ward off the cold. “Yes. What do you want, Witcher?”

“Can we come in?” Jaskier asks. “Might be more comfortable talking inside.”

Edrevod looks at him for a second as if he hadn’t even noticed Jaskier standing there, before he nods, stepping aside to let them in. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

The mage closes the door behind them, rubbing his hands together as Geralt and Jaskier look around the room. It’s cosy – or at least, it would’ve been if every surface hadn’t been filled with vials and beakers and papers and books and liquid-filled jars containing things that Geralt’s not sure a mage ever needs. At least not in the traditional types of magic.

Edrevod clears his throat, anxiety in his inkpot and silk scent as he starts clearing piles of paper off of chairs, motioning for them to sit. Geralt catches a glimpse of elaborate drawings of different plants, of lists of ingredients, of moon charts, every margin scribbled full with annotations, before Edrevod dumps the pile on another one, making the whole stack wobble precariously.

They sit and watch as the man goes about making tea – though neither of them has asked for it – unusually jittery and restless for a mage.

“Right,” Edrevod calls over his shoulder. “What can I help you two with?” He puts a kettle of water on the stove, lighting the firewood underneath it with a flick of his fingers before he takes a small stack of saucers from a shelf.

Geralt tries not to frown, and keeps his voice even. “Theo.”

The saucers clatter onto the countertop, though none of them break. “Th- Theo?”

“Yes, the shepherd who disappeared almost a year ago.”

Edrevod laughs flippantly, as though he can hide his nervousness – but the shaking of his voice betrays him. “What about him?”

He tries to keep his tone as casual as possible as Edrevod puts tealeaves into the hot water, half of them ending up next to the pot instead of in it. “He was killed by Drowners, wasn’t he?”

The mage nods, a little too frantically. “Yes, yes, he was.” His heartbeat spikes, the rotten apple scent of guilt permeating through the air, and Geralt knows he’s lying. “But that was nearly a year ago, Witcher. What has that got to do with the monster we’re dealing with now?”

“Hmm. Just making sure it’s not the same monster. I head there was another Witcher hired to take out the Drowners.”

“Yes, yes, I remember him.”

“What was his name?”

Edrevod startles and knocks over a teacup, sending it plummeting to the floor. He stops it from shattering on the stones with a quick flick of his wrist, taking the cup by its ear and scooping the tea out of the air before setting it back down on the saucer.

He suddenly seems very calm compared to mere seconds earlier, but Geralt can still smell the worry coming from him.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember, _Butcher_.” A lie.

“What’d he look like?”

The muscles in Edrevod’s back tense, and Geralt can see in the reflection of the window the mage is staring out of that he’s scowling.

“I don’t see why that matter, Witcher. After all, it happened over a year ago and poor Theo has nothing to do with the people that died so tragically these past few months.” A lie. “Now, _Butcher,_ is there anything of importance you need to discuss? Because I’m a very busy man and I don’t have time spare to waste on silly talks about things that are long in the past.”

Geralt stares at his back for a while, wondering where this sudden change in attitude came from.

Eventually, he resigns and shrugs, standing up again to make his way out of the door. He turns back around when he doesn’t hear footsteps behind him, finding Jaskier still sitting at the table.

“Oh, you go ahead, Geralt,” Jaskier says, waving his hand flippantly, a glint in his eyes as he reaches for the coin pouch in the pocket of his cloak. “I need some things from the good mage over here. I’ll meet you back at the inn?”

Geralt frowns, not sure what Jaskier’s up to, but at the bard’s insisting nod, he grunts and turns around again, walking out of the door and letting it fall shut behind him.

_._

He’s been watching the alderman’s house for the past half hour, hidden in the shadows of an alleyway, when Jaskier walks by.

He had his suspicions, a few nights earlier, when he first walked by the large brick house and saw the curtain in the upper right window moving, but he now knows it for sure: there’s someone else in that house.

He doesn’t know who it is or why the alderman has failed to mention them, but he’s seen a shadow walk past the window several times in the past half hour, seen the frilly curtains flutter with the wind of movement. Unfortunately, whoever it is hasn’t looked out the window or moved the curtains out of the way, so their identity is still a mystery. For now.

He’ll probably ask Magalie, if he remembers to.

And then Jaskier walks by. He’s moving his head from side to side, looking for Geralt, who only remembers he’s hidden by the shadows when Jaskier walks by without noticing him.

He pushes away from the wall, falling into step with Jaskier. To his credit, the bard doesn’t even flinch and merely sighs softly.

“So, what was that all about?” Geralt asks as they make their way back to the Sweet Loaf.

Jaskier shakes the small bag he’s holding. “Got a salve for healing burn wounds. Not that I need it but I told him we’re camping all the time and I’m always scared to get hurt by the fire. He totally believed me, too, and made me this. And in the meantime…” he gives Geralt a grin “…I got him talking.”

Geralt blinks, pleasant surprise making a laugh bubble in his throat, though he manages to keep it in. “Oh?”

“No need to sound so unimpressed, Witcher, because I managed to find out… pause for dramatic effect-“

“Jaskier-“

“It was Eskel. The other Witcher.”

He nearly stumbles over his own feet. “Are you sure?”

Jaskier shrugs, a triumphant grin on his face. “Fairly sure. I started complaining about how _you_ might not mind another scar from a burn, but I certainly would and _how inconsiderate these Witchers are._ And then he said that your scars were nothing compared to those of the other Witcher, said the man’s face was absolutely covered in them. So, I figured he was talking about Eskel.”

Geralt can do nothing but stare at him.

Jaskier smiles again. “This is the part where you say ‘thank you’, Geralt.”

“Thank you, Geralt,” he replies and Jaskier laughs, the sound of it bouncing around the streets, echoing in Geralt’s mind before making its way home to his heart.

_._

Magalie stops her pacing when they open the door to the Sweet Loaf. “And? What did you find out?”

“Edrevod definitely knows more about Theo’s disappearance, and it was not a pack of Drowners that killed him,” Geralt says as he takes Jaskier’s cloak, hanging it on one of the hooks next to the door along with his own.

“ _And_ the other Witcher is Eskel,” Jaskier fills in as he drops himself down on one of the chairs.

Magalie frowns. “Who?”

“My brother.”

“Oh. And is that good or bad?” she asks, looking between the two of them. “I suppose good?” They both nod. “Right, so what now?”

Jaskier takes out his notebook, ripping out four pages, before taking his pencil. “Let’s write down what we know already. The first victim… Wait, do we consider Theo the first victim or Lucie?”

“Theo,” Geralt and Magalie reply in unison, and Jaskier blinks at them for a second, before he bends over one of the pages.

“Right, so, Theo…”

“Maraden,” Magalie fills in.

“Theo Maraden. What do we need to know about him?”

Magalie sits down on one of the tables, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she frowns. “He was… forty or so. No, thirty-eight, I think. He was a sheep herder in the west, pretty far from town, disappeared about a year ago. Body never found.”

“And his murder site was in the northwest, about a mile from town,” Geralt adds and Jaskier nods, scribbling it down, tongue poking out between his lips.

“Right. Anything else that might be important?”

Geralt shrugs and Magalie shakes her head. Jaskier takes the second piece of paper, then, holding his pencil ready. “Second victim. Lucie… of Attre, right?” Magalie nods, and Jaskier writes it down. “Wealthy family, lived in the middle of town. Found… when, exactly?”

“About four months ago,” Magalie says. “She was nineteen, and, as you said, had a wealthy family. Though she was working here the past few summers, waiting tables. Said she wanted to save up some money and be independent from her family once she left for Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier nods. “Yeah, her family mentioned her ambitions. A bit of a far cry from Theo, though, don’t you think? And we still have no idea how she ended up in the woods. She was found in the north, right?” Geralt nods.

“I honestly don’t think she’s the type to go out into those woods alone,” Magalie mutters. “Strange thing.”

Jaskier nods, taking the third piece of paper. “Annona.”

“Ergilt,” Magalie says, the bitter almonds of grief mingling in her rosemary and bread scent. “Forty-seven, seamstress. Lived pretty close to the town centre. Found three months ago.”

Jaskier writes it down, brows furrowed as he thinks. “She was clearly taken from her home. Which is strange because Theo and Julie both disappeared without a trace, and Axel just walked into the woods.”

Geralt nods. “She was also found to the northeast, but her house is on the south side of town.”

“Long way to take someone,” Magalie agrees, blue eyes pensive and said. “And as far as I can tell, she didn’t really know any of the other victims. Nothing more than acquaintances, if even that.”

Jaskier scribbles it down, before taking the last piece of paper. “Axel.”

“Of Dorian. Twenty-four, lived on a farm to the west of the woods with his grandfather. Disappeared about four and a half weeks ago.”

“Found in the south,” Geralt adds, “just walked into the woods without a word.”

“That _is_ strange,” Magalie mutters. “Also strange that the killer would murder three of them in the north, and one in the south. Why would he kill in the woods, even? Why would he take his victims all the way there if he could’ve just as easily killed them in their sleep?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says, sighing deeply as he rests his forehead in his hands, staring down at the papers, eyes flicking between them. “I don’t get it. None of the victims seem to know each other. Theo and Axel both lived beyond the woods, in the west, but Annona and Julie lived in town, and even then, they didn’t live _even close_ to each other. It doesn’t make sense at all. There’s _nothing_ connecting the four of them.”

“Let’s not forget that Theo was killed a year ago, but the other three only recently,” Geralt points out.

“Exactly!” Jaskier exclaims, hands in his hair. “There’s _got_ to be _some_ connection, right?”

“Unless they’re random,” Magalie says.

“Even then-“ Geralt waves his hand at the papers “-you would expect him to kill close to home, but Theo and Axel lived pretty far away from town.”

The silence in the room that follows is heavy with frustration and worry.

Eventually Geralt can’t take it anymore, possibilities swimming around in his head only to be rejected the second he takes a closer look at them. None of it makes sense. He sighs, heading out of the door, letting it fall shut behind him.

Halfway to the stables, he realizes he forgot his cloak but doesn’t turn back to get it. It doesn’t matter, he’s resilient and the cold air helps to clear away the heat of frustration simmering under his skin.

Roach nickers when she sees him, pushing her nose against his pocket in search for treats. She bristles in offence when she doesn’t manage to find any and Geralt pets her nose in apology as he takes a brush off the wall. “Sorry, girl.”

She doesn’t seem to be too happy with the treat-less situation but settles down eventually as he starts to brush her. Her coat is already soft and shiny but the repetitive movements and the silence, only broken by the sound of the brush in her fur and her strong and steady heartbeat, help calm him down, clear his head from everything that’s been going on.

Out here in the cold, with Roach next to him, he can finally let his thoughts go.

After fifteen minutes, the door opens and the innkeeper, Bjorn, walks in, pitchfork in hand, dragging a haybale behind him with the other. He seems surprised to see Geralt here but doesn’t say anything about it.

“I’ll be done soon,” Geralt mutters and Bjorn shrugs.

“Hmm.” He’s spent enough time communicating in that same exact way to know it means ‘ _I don’t care’._

It’s quiet for a while and Geralt’s grateful for the fact that the innkeeper seems to be about as talkative as he is around strangers. Eventually, though, he hears Bjorn’s voice again: “She’s been getting restless. Darting around a bit an’ stuff, especially in the afternoon.”

Geralt nods, petting Roach’s nose, and she huffs against his arm. “She likes afternoon rides.”

“If you’re too busy, I can take her out, let her graze in the woods.” Geralt turns to look at the man, and Bjorn shrugs. “Wouldn’t dare to hurt a hair on her body,” he says, as if he’s read Geralt’s thoughts. Bjorn snorts. “Don’t think she would let me, either.”

He looks the innkeeper up and down for a few seconds but he smells no lies in the man’s scent, doesn’t hear his heartbeat pick up. He’s speaking the truth. “Hmm,” he hums his permission.

He pets Roach’s nose one last time before stepping back again, walking out of the stables.

The sun has started to set, the sky painted purple and orange and pink between the heavy clouds that are gathering. There will definitely be a storm soon – whether tomorrow or the day after, it doesn’t matter. He can feel it in his bones, can feel the anticipation coiling, gathering along with the grey clouds, growing with every hour that passes.

It’s quiet back at the inn. The old man – Lemming, if he remembers correctly – is sitting in the corner again, nursing a mug of ale, already looking halfway to death. Magalie is cleaning one of the tables. Jaskier is nowhere to be found.

The barmaid looks up as he enters. “Your bard’s gone upstairs,” she tells him. “Said he was tired.”

Geralt frowns at that. Jaskier’s been tired a lot, the past few days. This morning, Geralt thought it was over but it seems like it’s not. So maybe Jaskier _is_ getting sick.

Which is worse news than the storm, even – the last thing they want is illness falling upon them in the middle of this, so soon before winter, when Geralt has to return to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier has to find his way to a major city all on his own.

That’s the reason for the coil that tightens in his chest when he thinks of Jaskier getting sick. Nothing else.

Gods, how he hopes Jaskier isn’t getting sick.

He resists the urge to run up the stairs to check up on him. There’s something he still needs to talk about with Magalie, after all. “The alderman.”

“What about him?”

“There’s someone else in his house.”

Magalie stops cleaning the table and casts a glance at the old man in the corner, but seems to shrug her worries away. “On the top floor, right?” Geralt nods and she resumes her cleaning. “That’s Myrthe, his daughter. She has a weak disposition, gets sick easily, so she stays inside the house.”

“What about her mother?”

Magalie shrugs. “She died about…” she looks at the ceiling, counting under her breath “fourteen years ago, when Myrthe was three. Terrible tragedy, really, but she’d been sick for a while, apparently, so it wasn’t that unexpected.”

Geralt furrows his brow, but nods. “Hmm.”

He walks past her, up the stairs, towards the room he’s sharing with Jaskier while his mind races. The alderman’s been suspicious since the very start and lied about Eskel taking the money for a job without actually completing it. So who knows what else he’s lying about? Maybe he poisoned his wife on a regular basis until she died. Or maybe he murdered her and told the rest of the town she’d gotten sick.

Hmm. He doesn’t trust that man one bit.

Jaskier’s asleep on the bed when Geralt walks into the room, but startles awake when the door closes. He shifts a bit, blinking at Geralt. “Oh, hey, how’s Roach?” he slurs.

“Restless.”

Jaskier snorts, burrowing deeper under the blankets. “Yeah, her and me both.”

Geralt can’t help but grin. “Seems to me like you’re getting plenty of rest.”

“I know,” Jaskier mutters, “it’s just… I can’t wait to get out of this town. I feel so uncomfortable here, you know?” His eyes glaze over for a split second. “I think I’ll feel much better once all of this is over.” He blinks before looking at Geralt again. “What about you? Do _you_ like this town?”

Geralt snorts, and Jaskier smiles at him again, the Witcher’s expression answer enough for him: he hates this town.

There’s just something about this place that feels _off._

Maybe it has something to do with the serial killer, maybe it’s just the autumn weather that tends to make things a bit more eerie than they usually are, maybe it’s all the secrets that seem to be hidden under the surface of this quaint, little town – Geralt doesn’t know. But he couldn’t agree with Jaskier more: he can’t wait to get out of this place.

“So now what?” Jaskier asks for what seems to be the dozenth time. “What do we do next?”

He hates to admit it, but… “I don’t know.” There seems to be no connection between the victims, no clues to be found at the crime scenes that could lead them to the murderer. He genuinely has no idea what to do next and it frustrates him to no end.

“I’ll tell you what,” Jaskier mumbles before yawning and stretching. “How about we just go to sleep, and we’ll see in the morning. That sound alright?”

“Hmm.”

_._

After a few hours, he gives up on trying to sleep. It just won’t come to him, his thoughts running around in circles in his head as he tries not to worry about the way Jaskier shivers beneath the thick blankets.

Eventually, he slips out of bed, relighting the embers of the dying fire with a quick _Igni,_ feeding it a few logs before he quietly slinks out of the door, clicking it shut behind him. He’s not sure what to do, now, but he supposes he could visit Roach for a bit – maybe she’ll be able to calm him down.

But his plan foils when he walks down the stairs, finding Magalie sitting at one of the tables, a bottle of liquor in front of her. She looks up when he steps out of the shadows, into the light of the few lit candles in the room. To her credit, she doesn’t startle when she sees him but simply turns back to her glass.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks. He shakes his head and she gestures to the chair opposite her. “Make yourself comfortable, Witcher. Grab a glass.”

He does as he’s told and she fills his cup for him, the flickering of the candles sending shivering shadows across her face.

“So,” she mutters, “what’s on _your_ mind?”

He shrugs, taking a sip of the liquor, letting it burn its way down his throat and warm him from the inside out. “Just… trying to figure out what the connection is between the victims. The killer’s motives, or why he chose those people, or why he’s killing in the woods, or why he’s choosing to _burn_ them, of all methods.”

She nods absentmindedly, her blue eyes tired and sad.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks when the silence starts to stretch on.

“Annona,” she answers frankly. “I just… I want to catch the person who did this, who made her suffer like that.” She shakes her head, tears gathering in her eyes. “I just… I always thought she’d die of old age, I never could’ve imagined…” She shakes her head again.

“Not a pretty way to go,” Geralt mutters into his drink.

She laughs mirthlessly. “Burned alive. Can you believe? Dreadful, absolutely dreadful…” The scent of metal and salt fear fills the air. “I can’t imagine a worse way to go. I’d rather kill myself than be burned alive.”

“Hmm,” he agrees.

A thud above them has them both looking up as someone stumbles around upstairs. Magalie’s hand shoots out to grab the neck of the liquor bottle, blue eyes hardening as the sounds continue but eventually die out.

She sighs, letting go of the bottle, slumping in her chair again. “You’ve got superhuman hearing, right?” she asks him and he nods. “If you hear Lemming come down the stairs, give me a heads-up so I can hide the liquor, will you?”

He leans his forearms on the table, frowning at the barmaid. “Lemming. That’s the old man, right? The one who’s always drunk?”

“The one and only,” she mutters bitterly, downing the rest of the glass.

“Why… why do you continue to give him alcohol? He’s drinking himself to death.”

She scoffs, her gaze travelling up the table to his face. “Trust me, I know. But if I don’t, he’ll just drink that shit he’s cooked up in his bathtub- I’m pretty sure it’s just straight poison. One drop will kill him. This way, I can at least _try_ to get him sober. I’ve already hidden all the liquor from him. And I figure that if I just give him a little less alcohol each day, eventually he’ll sober up, right?”

“I suppose,” he lies, twirling the glass between his fingers.

She sighs, shaking her head. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s not the greatest idea, but it’s the best one I’ve got.”

“At least you’re trying. Plenty of people wouldn’t.”

She shrugs. “I only started trying after Annona died. And I don’t know if I would have if it had been someone else drinking themselves to death, but… He once told me his wife died, about fourteen years ago.”

“Which is why he started drinking.” She nods. “And why you’re helping him, now. Because you know what it feels like to lose a loved one.” She nods again.

“Selfish of me, isn’t it? To only help someone when I know how they feel.”

“You’re not selfish. You were just… sheltered.”

She smiles at him. “Naïve, you mean.”

He shrugs, downing the rest of his liquor. “Same thing.” He looks out the window, notices that it’s only a few hours until sunrise. “I’m going to try and get some sleep. You should, too.”

That night, as he hold a shivering Jaskier close, he dreams of fire and liquor and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan.  
> Again, please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up! Uni's been kicking my ass lately. I promise the next chapter will be here sooner :)
> 
> Warning for graphic descriptions in this chapter! Proceed with caution.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment! (also I really enjoyed all the comments with theories on the last chapter, it was really validating to know that it's an actual mystery and not obvious from the very beginning)

There’s no sunshine to wake him in the morning, only his internal clock telling him it’s time to get up.

The dark clouds from the previous day have multiplied tenfold, the sky suddenly seeming a lot lower than it usually does, the darkness looming above them threateningly. The harsh wind is chasing the leaves through the streets of White Bridge and the inn creaks around them from time to time, sturdy walls having to give way a bit against the forces of nature.

It’s not raining yet but it’s only a matter of time until it will, and Geralt knows that when the heavens do finally open up, they’ll open up with a vengeance, soaking everything within seconds.

There’s no doubt there’ll be thunder and lightning, too.

Geralt remembers a time when he felt safe in his mother’s arms, when thunder used to frighten him and she would hold him close, whispering tales of knights and princesses into his ear until the storm would pass.

The fear and tales of knights and princesses were beaten out of him a long time ago, though, even before that last night on the highest tower of Kaer Morhen. After all, if a storm rolls in while he’s in the middle of nowhere or fighting a monster, he doesn’t have time to run and hide like a foolish child. He’s a  _ Witcher.  _ Witchers aren’t supposed to be scared of thunder and lightning.

So he isn’t. Not anymore.

And for those tales of princesses and knights – well, he learned a long time ago that knights are usually pompous bastards and princesses will likely die a tragic death, no matter how badly you want to save them.

Jaskier’s still sound asleep and Geralt decides to leave him be for another hour or so to make sure he’s gotten enough rest.

Downstairs, Magalie is mopping the floor while Bjorn fixes a broken chair, hammer in his hand, a few nails in his mouth, brow furrowed as he works. He nods at Geralt in greeting and Magalie gives him a bright smile that’s completely at odds with the oppressive darkness that looms just outside the inn.

“Good morning, Witcher.”

Another heavy gust of wind makes the inn creak and groan and Geralt pulls his eyebrows up. “Is it?”

It earns him a snort from Bjorn, and Magalie rolls her eyes before resuming her work.

“You can help yourself to breakfast in the kitchen if you want,” she tell him.

“Well, what if the man wants you to serve him, Mags?” Bjorn asks, grinning around the nails as she makes a rude gesture at him.

“Not a man,” Geralt says, “and I can help myself just fine, thank you.”

He gathers a bun and some cheese in the kitchen, sitting down in the common room to eat. It’s mostly quiet except for the howling of the wind outside, the clattering of loose branches on the cobblestone streets, and the groaning of the inn under the force of the weather.

When he’s nearly done, the door to the inn suddenly slams open, though it startles them as much as it does the woman who opened it – the wind making her entrance a lot grander than she probably expected.

“Sorry!” she squeaks with a nervous laugh before she struggles to close the door with one hand, the other occupied with a closed basket. Geralt remembers her – she was that woman that was here a few days earlier to bring vegetables and kiss Bjorn. Jente, if he recalls correctly.

She eventually manages to shut the door and sets the basket down on one of the tables, giving everyone in the room a bright smile. Her brown curls are an absolute mess and she attempts to smooth it down with her hands a bit, though there’s no doubt it’ll get ruffled again the minute she steps outside.

“I’ve got the vegetables!” she announces to no one in particular, though Geralt can’t help but notice that her brown eyes keep drifting to Bjorn, the spring grass scent of joy radiating off of her as she digs through her basket, pulling out carrots, onions, radishes, and garlic.

“This is all, isn’t it?” she asks, looking up at the innkeeper, blush rising to her cheeks.

“Yes, it is.” Geralt can see something in Bjorn’s eyes – something he can’t give a name to, though he recognizes it. He’s seen Jaskier look at him like that before, though the bard had always looked away the second Geralt caught him staring.

He still doesn’t know what it means.

Jente nods enthusiastically. “Good! Good. Can I interest any of you in strawberries? My plants are very fruitful right now but with, sheesh-“ she nods at the window “ _ that  _ going on, I assume they’ll be destroyed by the time I make it home.”

“I’ll take some,” Geralt says before he can think twice. After all, strawberries are Jaskier’s favourite fruit and they might help to keep the illness that’s threatening to overtake Jaskier at bay.

Jente smiles brightly at him, handing him a small, wooden box filled with the rich-scenting fruit. “Free of charge,” she says. “For ridding our town of the monster.”

He nods his gratitude and Jente turns back to Bjorn.

“Can you help me get those vegetables to the kitchen?” she asks innocently, and Bjorn nods too eagerly for it to be, scooping the vegetables up from the table and following her through the door.

Magalie heaves a sigh, throwing her head back. “Guess I’m staying out of the kitchen for a while. I swear to the gods, they think they’re being secretive but everyone knows – would be easier for both them and us if they just got together properly.”

Geralt shrugs, cradling the small box of strawberries in his too large hands, getting up from his chair. “I suppose they’ll get there eventually. I’m going to bring these to Jaskier.”

Magalie looks at him for a couple of seconds, a strange, amused glint in her blue eyes. “Yes, I suppose they’ll get there eventually.”

He frowns, not sure what to make of her tone, but years of experience with Jaskier tells him that just outright asking to speak plainly will only make someone talk in more veiled sentences, so he gives up, heading up the stairs to the room.

_._

Jaskier’s awake and dressed when Geralt tentatively knocks on the door and slips inside. He’s sitting at the foot of the bed on the floor, looking at the pages with the victims’ names on it, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Hey,” Geralt says softly as he sits down next to Jaskier. “How are you feeling?”

Jaskier shakes his head distractedly. “Fine, I guess,” he mutters. Then, he sighs, leaning back until his shoulders connect with the foot of the bed. “And how are you-  _ Are those strawberries?” _

Geralt nods, pushing the box towards a suddenly very happy-looking Jaskier who takes them, popping one of the red fruit in his mouth whole, crown and all, chewing as he closes his eyes.

“Oh, these are lovely,” he mutters. He offers the box to Geralt blindly. “Do you want some?”

He shakes his head, even though Jaskier can’t see it. “No, thanks.”

Jaskier opens his eyes again to pick another one of the strawberries, biting this one in half, the fruit painting his lips a light shade of red. He startles slightly when Jaskier catches him staring, his buttercup smiling at him and closing the gap between them to press his lips to Geralt’s cheek, leaving sweet stickiness and a tingling warmth behind.

“Thank you. For the fruit,” Jaskier says softly. “I know you worry about me but I’m fine.”

He wishes he could believe that. He really does. “Just eat your strawberries,” he says, standing up again and making his way back down the stairs.

_._

That afternoon, they’re sitting at one of the tables, Bjorn out front making sure there are no cracks in the walls that might need last-minute repairing, Magalie upstairs dusting the unused rooms. The papers are laid out in front of them, four names staring up at the ceiling.

“What do you think?” Jaskier asks for what might be the hundredth time and Geralt rubs at the spot above his left eyebrow, trying to push away the budding headache.

“I don’t know,” he replies for what might also be the hundredth time.

“Let’s go over the facts again, then.”

He sighs, resisting the urge to groan. It’s well past midday, by now, and they’ve  _ ‘gone over the facts’  _ time and time again, theorizing and speculating and hypothesizing, and they still haven’t discovered anything new.

“I  _ know _ ,” Jaskier says impatiently. “I know this is annoying, but…” there’s a fevered haze covering his eyes, heartbeat picking up “we  _ have  _ to solve this, Geralt, before it’s too late.” He blinks, then sighs. “Look, we just have to try again, alright? Maybe this time we’ll see something we haven’t seen before.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier for a couple of seconds, trying to gather what little patience he has left. He’s about to nod when the door to the inn opens, the man barely managing to hold on to the handle lest the door is ripped out of his hands and slammed against the wall by the wind.

Geralt sits up straight, furrowing his brow. He recognizes the man – it’s the pigeoneer. Meaning-

“Letter for the Witcher,” the man announces, laying a thinly rolled piece of paper on the table. “Do you wish to write back?”

He reaches for the paper, nodding. “Yes, most likely.”

“Alright,” the pigeoneer mutters, sitting down at a different table, making himself comfortable as Geralt unfurls the letter.

“ _ Geralt,”  _ Vesemir writes,  _ “I have heard of White Bridge and after asking around for a bit, I heard that Eskel was there about a year ago for a pack of Drowners after a shepherd went missing. He didn’t find the man’s remains but he thinks they washed away in the river. Be careful when tracking a murderer, pup; humans are more unpredictable than you might think. _

_ -Vesemir.” _

Geralt sighs, leaning his forehead against his palm. This isn’t anything they don’t already know and he curses his past self for not asking for some sort of advice.

But then again, he doesn’t know what he should’ve asked, exactly, and he doubts he can fit the entire story on a small piece of paper. And even if he does manage to pose a particular question, it will be  _ days  _ before he gets a letter back under normal circumstances – but judging by the wind that’s howling outside, it might take even longer than that.

No, they’re in this alone, unfortunately. And they’re clear out of ideas.

He sighs again, leaning back. “I won’t be sending another letter,” he tells the pigeoneer and the man shrugs, standing up and putting his hat back on.

“Probably for the best, if I’m being honest, sir Witcher. Don’t want to risk my birds in that storm if I can help it.” He nods his goodbye to Jaskier and Geralt and makes his way back into the wind.

“So what did Vesemir say?” Jaskier asks, reaching for the paper.

Geralt hands it to him. “Nothing we don’t already know.”

It’s quiet for a while as Jaskier reads, the silence only disturbed by the howling of the wind, the creaking of the inn, Magalie’s soft footsteps upstairs and the distant knocking of Bjorn checking the walls.

Eventually, Jaskier tosses the paper onto the table, heaving a sigh, frustration in his cinnamon and blueberry scent.

Geralt looks down at the papers, rearranging them into order. Theo, the shepherd, a year ago. Julie, the young woman from a wealthy family, four months ago. Annona, the seamstress, three months ago. Axel, the farmer, by now five weeks ago.

None of these people seem to have anything in common. They don’t know each other, they have no connection whatsoever. Three in the north, one in the south, all a mile from town. All of them in the woods, burned to death. Theo was murdered a little more bloodily than the other ones and his body was never found. Not only that, but his death was so much longer ago than the others.

Geralt’s always loved puzzles and riddles.

As a child, his mother would think of elaborate riddles for him to solve during long cart rides. As he grew up, he made it his personal challenge to learn all of Kaer Morhen’s puzzles and solve them. In a way, fighting is a puzzle, too: calculating your opponent’s moves before they can make them and thinking of a countermeasure before it’s too late. And when the townspeople are vague about what a monster looks like or he has to go off of tracks alone or he has to figure out how to pay for their next meal and not let Jaskier starve, it’s all just one big puzzle to him.

But this puzzle, this riddle, he can’t solve. And it frustrates him to no end.

There has to be  _ something.  _ Something that they’re missing, something that is the final clue to this whole story but for some reason he feels like they aren’t even  _ close _ to discovering that something yet. Like it’s still out there, waiting for them.

But they don’t have the time. Any moment, the killer could strike again, choose his next victim and end their life before the night is over. And then that person will be on Geralt’s conscience, that death will be his fault, because he couldn’t find the thing they were missing all along.

He looks up, sees Jaskier staring blankly at the papers on the table, blue eyes a bit hazy, dark circles underneath them.

“Jaskier?”

The bard blinks then yawns again. Geralt can’t help but notice in the low candlelight of the inn that his cheeks are a bit sunken and something ugly and scared coils in his chest. He leans across the table, pressing the back of his hand against Jaskier’s forehead who – uncharacteristically so – doesn’t give much of a reaction to the unexpected touch.

He frowns again when he feels that Jaskier’s skin is colder than it should be.

He looks out the window. It’s getting quite late, meaning they’ve wasted their entire day theorizing without figuring anything out, but it’s still too early for Jaskier to be this tired.

He looks at Jaskier, who seems to have regained at least some of the usual clarity in his eyes. “Geralt, I can see the gears turning in your head, what is it?”

“You’re getting sick.”

Jaskier scoffs, rubbing at his eyes as he looks away. “Am not.”

“You are.”

“Am  _ not.” _

“Jaskier…”

“I feel  _ fine,  _ Geralt. Besides, as you can see-“ he gestures at the papers, the movement of his arm making the corners of the pages flutter a bit “we’re sort of in the middle of something important! I can’t afford to get sick now. I’ll tell you what, I’m going to take a lovely evening walk. I always do that whenever something gets stuck under my skin. It’ll help.”

He scoffs. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes before pouting at Geralt. “Why not?”

He pulls his eyebrows up slightly. “The weather’s terrible. Even if you’re not getting sick, it still wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Jaskier makes a face, digging the edge of his fingernail into the wood of the table. “You know how I hate being cooped up in one place for too long.”

He sighs softly. “I know,” he mutters. “But please, stay inside. Just for a few days until the storm’s passed.”

“I’ll feel a lot better once all of this is over,” Jaskier whispers.

“You and me both. I’ll go get you some dinner, alright?”

Jaskier slumps in his chair, nodding meekly. “Fine. Alright.”

That night, Geralt holds a shivering Jaskier close as the wind howls outside the inn, the walls creaking ominously around them. He rubs warmth into the bard’s skin and prays for Jaskier’s safety to every god out there that’ll listen.

_._

He wakes when someone screams. A man. It sounds like Bjorn.

It’s broken and sorrowful, a kind of cry Geralt has had to hear plenty of times before from mourning families who lost their loved ones to a monster, screaming their throat raw and bloody on their grief. It never fails to make shivers run down his spine, regret and guilt at his own shortcomings coiling in his gut even if there’s no way he could’ve stopped it.

He shudders and for a few seconds, he lets himself hold Jaskier close, lets himself feel grateful that his buttercup is still here, alive in his arms.

“Geralt?” Jaskier mumbles into his shoulder, stirring lightly as he wakes. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers and small tendrils of metal-and-salt fear reach his nose. “It’s going to be alright, Jask. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He closes his eyes, chastising himself for lying. A scream like that is never nothing.

He sighs, slowly extracting himself from Jaskier’s arms, leaving the warmth of the bed behind him to pick up his steel sword, holding it loosely in his palm as he goes to open the door.

He finds Magalie on the other side, hand raised and ready to knock. Her blue eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, the silver-threaded hair she usually keeps in neat braids loose and ruffled, as if she’s been running her hands through it. She smells of bitter almonds.

Grief.

“Who?” he asks. There’s no need to tell him someone died and if she’s knocking at  _ his  _ door, it can only mean one thing: a body has been found, burned in the woods.

“Jente,” she manages to choke out before she dissolves into sobs.

_._

There’s a steady stream of murmurs rising above the howling of the wind as they make their way to the woods on the south side of town. People stand outside their houses in the harsh weather to tell each other about the unlucky woman and her poor, orphaned children.

Some throw angry looks his way and he can hear them talking as he passes, can hear them blaming him for Jente’s death. After all, they still think it was a monster’s work and he’s a Witcher – _he’s_ supposed to be the one to take care of the threat and he hasn’t.

And even though he knows the truth, knows that this is no monster’s fault, he can’t help but agree with them.

There’s a small gaggle of people gathered around the scene of the crime when they arrive and Magalie immediately sets on herding them away to let Geralt take a closer look without everyone stomping all the evidence away.

He hears Jaskier cough next to him as they move closer to the body and he watches out of the corner of his eye as the bard takes a handkerchief and presses it to his nose. “Sweet Melitele, the smell…” Jaskier mutters.

Geralt inhales deeply. Besides the obvious burnt flesh, there’s hints of ashes and oil and hot iron. Jente is lying with her back to them and Geralt briefly wonders how people knew it was her – there’s nothing about her that reminds him of the kind woman he met a few days ago. Her soft, brown hair is gone, her clothes burned to scraps, some shreds clinging to her black and red flesh, molten into the cracks.

He also wonders where that iron-scent is coming from but as he rounds the body, the origin presents itself clear as day.

“What the fuck?” Jaskier whispers next to him and Geralt couldn’t have phrased it better if he’d tried.

Jente’s hands are bound in front of her but clearly not just to restrain her. Instead, the wire wraps around her lower arms in broad, even loops, pressing into her burnt skin, before continuing up her palms, pressing them together. The wire splits in two after that, keeping her fingers stretched and pulled back so that they form a V-shape.

She’s curled up in a foetal position, chin and knees pressed to her chest, arms held above her head as if to protect her face from the flames. She was bound before she was burned. And she was terrified.

Geralt kneels next to her body, gently pushing her head backwards, ignoring the way her charred skin cracks, before taking her chin in his gloved hand, pulling her mouth open.

“Sweet Melitele, Geralt,” Jaskier mutters behind him, staying a few steps back, handkerchief pressed to his nose more tightly. “Why’d you do that?”

“She was definitely burned alive.”

A beat of silence. “What?”

“Her mouth and throat are burned as well. She was still breathing when the fire took her.”

“Dear gods.”

“Hmm.” It’s not a pretty way to go and in the back of his mind, he wonders why no one heard her scream. Or, if someone did, why they’re not talking about it.

But when he pushes her mouth open a little further, he discovers the reason why at the back of her throat.

He reaches inside, gently tugging at the black cloth. It’s wedged into her seized-up throat pretty tightly but with a bit more strength, he manages to pull it out. He hears the leaves rustle behind him, Jaskier stepping closer to look over Geralt’s shoulder.

“What is that?” the bard whispers and Geralt shrugs, turning the thing over in his hand. It seems to be a small sachet made of black silk, tied closed with a white ribbon, the edges burnt and speckled with blood.

He pockets it for now. After all, he can see the crowd gathering and he knows Magalie can’t keep the townspeople away from the body that much longer. Better to inspect the bag more closely back at the inn.

He gets up, walking around the body in a circle, searching the ground for any other clues about who did this and why.

He finds nothing but ashes and fallen leaves.

When his gaze finds Jaskier’s boots, he looks up. Blue eyes are still glued to the body, cheeks drained of colour, the hand that’s clutching the handkerchief hanging uselessly and unmoving in the air in front of his chest.

“Jaskier?”

The bard doesn’t look away, though a strange haze falls over his usually so alert eyes.

“Jaskier?”

“We don’t have much time.”

He frowns, taken aback. “What?”

Jaskier blinks, then yawns, rubbing at his eyes, and Geralt only now notices the dark circles underneath them, the hollowness of his cheeks. “What?”

He looks at Jaskier for a few seconds, trying to push away the worry that’s gnawing at his chest. It really looks like the bard is getting sick, and badly, too.

“Nothing,” he mutters, then turns away. A particularly strong gust of wind blows his hair into his face and he wipes it out of his eyes, though that doesn’t do much to help. The storm is close. “Let’s go back.”

“Right,” Jaskier says brightly, though it sounds forced. “Where to next, then? Find out where she lived and pay the house a visit, I suppose?”

“Hmm.”

He looks up when the distant rumble of thunder reaches him – though he feels it in his bones more than he hears it, setting his hair on end in anticipation. It won’t be long until they’re caught in the storm. And it will be a heavy one.

Jaskier was right; they don’t have much time.

_._

They find out from Magalie that Jente lived on the north side of town at the edge of the woods. It’s a little cottage with a straw roof and vines climbing up the walls. There’s a well-kept vegetable garden on one side of the house, though Geralt knows it won’t stay that well-kept for long now that Jente is gone.

The inside of the cottage is not as neat as the vegetable garden. There are wooden playing blocks strewn across the living room floor, there’s an entire wall in the hallway covered in brightly coloured paints and children’s drawings. There's a tray full of freshly-baked cookies on the kitchen counter, flour and bits of dough sticking to the countertops and walls, as if Jente didn’t have the energy to clean it up yesterday after baking those cookies with her children and told herself she would today.

More so than with the other victims’ houses, it feels wrong to be here. It feels too intimate, too personal, as if he’s invading the young family’s privacy by being here, by seeing the multicoloured drawings, by going through the rooms, by picking up the small chalkboard filled with a shaky alphabet.

He can almost see it: Jente and her boys sitting at the wall in the hallway as she praises them for their drawings and for keeping it restricted to this one wall only. The small family laughing as one of them manages to spill the flour all over the floor and walls and Jente telling her little ones that it’s alright, she’s not mad,  _ just don’t eat the flour, okay?  _ He can see her tucking her little boys in at night, kissing them goodnight and promising them that they’ll get to eat their cookies in the morning.

A promise she never got the chance to keep.

The coil in his chest snaps and he slumps against the wall, his eyes trained on the children’s drawings in front of him as he slides down to sit on the wooden floor. He sees a straw-roofed cottage, a clumsily drawn vegetable garden next to it, and three stick figures, one bigger than the other two, with long, brown hair.

And, there, in the silence of the cottage, he curses himself.

He curses himself for not being able to catch the killer in time. For not being able to protect this woman from the horrors that happened to her, from the pain and fear that filled her last moments. For not being able to protect her children from the grief of losing their only remaining parent, from losing their home. He curses himself for everything he couldn’t do and the damage that it caused.

And he curses the killer, the one to rip this little family apart, to make a loving mother and kind woman suffer the worst possible fate. He curses him for doing this, for ruining lives and causing this grief.

And, in the small hallway, he also vows to himself to do whatever it takes to make sure the person who did this gets punished for what they did. To make sure the families have at least some semblance of justice.

If not for Theo, Julie, Annona or Axel, then for Jente and her two little boys who have to spend the rest of their childhood without their mother.

_._

He meets Jaskier outside. The bard just talked with Jente’s boys who are staying with the neighbours – they both figured a Witcher wouldn’t help the boys feel at ease.

“And?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs. “Nothing special. You?”

“Well,” Jaskier begins as they start walking back to the Sweet Loaf. “Apparently she disappeared in the middle of the night while her kids were asleep. One of the boys says he might’ve heard someone knock, but he’s not sure.”

“Which one?”

“The five year-old, I think.” Geralt has to strain his ears to hear him over the howling of the wind, thunder rolling in the distance. “So he’s not very reliable, but it’s the only thing we’ve got. Aside from that, nothing else stood out – not to the kids, not to the neighbours. No one knows for sure what happened.”

“Hmm.” He groans internally, frustration rearing up its ugly head again, and the spot above his left eyebrow starts hurting.

He’d hoped that there would be at least  _ some  _ clues as to who could’ve done this, hoped that he would at least be able to stop the next murder from happening, now that he hasn’t been able to stop this one. But it looks like they’ve hit a dead end again.

The streets of White Bridge are strangely quiet, especially compared to the hustle and bustle of this morning, when the body was discovered – but he supposes everyone’s gone back inside now that the novelty of it has worn off and the storm is coming in.

Magalie is scrubbing the tables furiously back at the inn, her face blotchy, hands rubbed red and raw. She looks up when they enter but resumes cleaning after a second or so. The entire room stinks of bitter almonds.

“She was really nice, you know,” she says, her voice cracking a bit, blue eyes welling up again.

“She was,” Geralt says in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. He didn’t know Jente for that long but from what he gathered from her cottage and what little interaction he had with her, he knows she was a kind and loving woman.

“Bjorn is heartbroken.”

“Hmm.” The anguished scream from that morning still echoes through his mind, the pure grief in it still enough to make his skin crawl.

And, if he strains his ears, he can hear it in the distance, pained shout after pained shout, in time with an axe coming down on wood with more force than necessary. He can feel the anger and hurt even from here, and he has to resist the urge to pull Jaskier close, remind himself that his buttercup is alive and quite well, that the pain Magalie and Bjorn exude isn’t his own.

“Those children…” Magalie sniffles, scrubbing at the table more furiously, her skin cracking and dripping tiny amounts of blood where it’s been dried out from the soap.

Jaskier sighs, gently laying his hands over hers, prying the cloth out of her grip, softly massaging her fingers when she finally lets go.

“We know, Magalie, darling. We know.”

Her face crumples and she lets out a harsh sob. “Don’t call me darling.”

Jaskier gathers her in his arms as she cries, gently patting her back, whispering soft words into her hair where it cascades over her shoulders.

Geralt leaves them be and quietly slips through the kitchen door, taking the back exit of the inn and finding Bjorn in a little courtyard between the houses. The splitting block in front of the man is rendered to splinters as he lets the axe come down again and again, shouting out his agony for the world to hear.

Eventually, the steel blade hits the cobblestones with a loud  _ clang,  _ and Bjorn flings the thing to the side with one last anguished shout, more angry than pained, before he drops to his knees, bowing until his forehead touches the stones, dissolving into tears.

Geralt’s never been good with grief and loss, even after all these years of watching his brothers die, of listening to mourning families before he kills the monster responsible. Even after Blaviken. The worst part of it is always knowing that there’s nothing he can do; what is dead may never come back.

He sighs softly, walking towards the suddenly small-looking man in the middle of the courtyard, carefully stepping around the splinters of wood. He lays a soft hand on Bjorn’s shoulder, startling the man slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For… everything.”

Bjorn looks up at him, one hand coming up to grasp Geralt’s lower arm tightly, red-rimmed eyes boring into his, intense in their grief. “Promise me, Witcher,” the innkeeper says, voice trembling and cracking, yet determined all the same. “Promise me you’ll find the monster that did this to her. Avenge my Jente.  _ Promise me.” _

He swallows thickly and nods. “I promise.”

_._

He finds Jaskier and Magalie in the common room, a pot of tea and two steaming mugs in front of them, another left empty for Geralt.

He sits down next to them, lets Jaskier pour him a cup, smiling softly at the bard, who smiles back. The room still smells of bitter almonds, but less so than before and mingled with the scent of cotton and warmth – fatigue.

He frowns when he feels a bump in his pocket and reaches inside, his fingers grazing over silk.

“What? What is it?” Jaskier asks when he sees Geralt’s eyes go wide, and the Witcher shakes his head a bit as he pulls the little sachet out, laying it on the table in front of them.

The black silk looks expensive enough, though the edges are a bit charred and Geralt can smell the blood on the fabric – probably from Jente’s throat, screamed raw as she burned alive. The white ribbon it’s tied with is also black around the edges, small flecks of red marring the fabric. He can smell herbs and flowers.

“What’s that?” Magalie asks, awoken from her waking sleep, looking at the bag with red-rimmed eyes.

“Found it in her throat,” Geralt mumbles, “I don’t know what it is.”

“Is that silk? Must’ve been expensive.” On any other day, Geralt would’ve made a remark about how it’s typical that Jaskier’s the one to recognize the fabric and the cost of it.

He reaches over the table, plucks at the ribbon that binds the sachet shut with a tight knot. After a few quiet, torturously long seconds, he manages to undo it, and the black silk folds open on the table, revealing its contents.

Jaskier frowns. “Dried herbs?”

Geralt takes his knife, using the tip to shift through the small pile. “Hmm. Rosemary. Oats. Rose petals. And…” His eyebrows knit together, the tip of the knife pointing at a small, white flower.

“Yarrow,” Jaskier says, “that’s yarrow.”

He looks up when Magalie makes a small, wounded noise. She’s staring at the dried herbs and flowers, her face pale and her eyes wide.

“Magalie? Do you know what this is?”

She frowns, shakes her head. “Maybe? It just reminds me of when I was a kid and I got the cold. My mother would make me packets like this with a simple handkerchief. She would put in lavender and thyme and peppermint, and she’d put it under my pillow so that it’d help clear my blocked nose.”

“And these herbs? What do they do?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Why… why would her killer…? I don’t understand.”

Geralt sighs, rubbing at that spot above his left eyebrow. There were already so many unanswered questions before today – questions he had hoped to answer with the information he got from Jente’s body. But her death has only raised so many more.

He looks up at the sound of paper tearing and sees Jaskier ripping another page from his notebook, his face grave. “Right,” he mutters as he takes his pencil. “Jente.”

“Of Ellander,” Magalie whispers, her eyes glassy and fixed on the herbs, her voice flat. “Thirty-five. Mother of two boys, one five, the other seven. Husband died four years ago from the plague.”

“She sold vegetables from her garden. Lived on the north side of town. Found in the south,” Geralt continues.

Jaskier finishes writing, frowning down at the page. “Strange, isn’t it? She had to go through the entire town, if she walked to where she was murdered. And if she didn’t walk, the killer somehow had to get her there while she was, presumably, thrashing about – which can’t have been easy.

“It’s just like Axel,” Geralt says and Jaskier nods.

“Exactly like Axel. That’s now, what? The second person killed on the south side of town? The other three were in the north, right?”

“Hmm.”

It’s quiet for a while, all of them staring at the herbs, lost in thought.

A sharp ache throbs above Geralt’s left eyebrow and he rubs the spot absentmindedly, his already foul mood souring with each stab into his skull, frustration boiling under his skin.

It’s like he’s sitting in front of a large puzzle, nearly all the pieces gathered in front of him, ready to be laid out. He knows that they all fit together some way, somehow, but he doesn’t know what the bigger picture looks like, so he can’t put them into the right place.

They all look up as a flash illuminates the dim room, followed swiftly by the crack of thunder. There’s a few seconds of loaded silence before there’s another bolt of lightning piercing the darkness, another bout of thunder rolling through the streets of White Bridge.

And then the skies open up, sending waves of rain pouring over the cobblestones, clattering against the windows in the harsh, unrelenting winds, the inn shaking around them.

The storm is here.

_._

That night, Jaskier shivers, even from where he’s plastered against Geralt’s side, huddled under several thick blankets. His fingertips are cold, his heart way slower than it’s supposed to be, his trembling unrelentless.

As the rain beats down upon the roof and the windows, as the wind howls outside the relative safety of the inn, as the thunder crackles and booms overhead, violent flashes of lightning illuminating the room every few seconds, Geralt can’t help but pull a shivering, shaking Jaskier ever closer and admit to himself for the first time in decades that he’s scared.

But this time, it’s not the storm that scares him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while to upload! Exams are kicking my ass.
> 
> TW for mentions of suicide.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

Jaskier doesn’t wake in the morning.

Not at first, at least, when Geralt slips out from underneath him and starts dressing – which is usually when Jaskier wakes up. Then, he doesn’t wake when Geralt softly shakes his shoulder to rouse him. And he doesn’t when Geralt starts calling his name.

It’s only after a minute or so, when his shaking has become frantic and panicked, his grip on Jaskier’s shoulder too tight to be reasonably comfortable, his voice desperate and worried, that Jaskier wakes.

The bard sits up, rubbing the sleep from his hazy eyes, though the dark circles underneath them still remain. He blinks up at Geralt, frowning in confusion. “Melitele, Geralt, what’s going on?” His eyes grow wide, heartbeat picking up as salt and metal fill the air around them. “Did they find another body?”

Geralt shakes his head, relief flooding him. “No, it’s just… you… never mind. It’s time for breakfast.” He tries to push the worry away and finds that he can’t.

Once Jaskier is dressed, Geralt leads the way down the stairs. And is promptly greeted at the bottom by none other than the alderman himself.

“Ah, Witcher! You’re… finally out of bed,” the alderman – Yalculm Covri, if Geralt remembers correctly – says, a sneer around his thin lips. “Stay up late last night?”

Geralt looks at Magalie, who’s standing by the counter, hands folded neatly in front of her apron, pleasant smile on her face, cheeks pale and eyes scared.

Before he can think of an answer, Jaskier pushes past him, a fake smile plastered on his face as well, though he doesn’t reek of fear as Magalie does; he smells of burnt food, instead. Anger.

“As a matter of fact, good sir alderman, he did! We both did. We were trying to think of all the places the monster could be hiding. After all, it’s easier to catch it once this dreadful storm has passed,” he lies through his teeth, “as the monster will be hungry and cold and Geralt will be able to track it easily and-“ he flings his arm through the air in fake enthusiasm, causing the alderman to take a step backwards to avoid getting slapped in the face “-chop off its ugly head with one fell swoop of his mighty sword!”

Yalculm blinks at Jaskier for a few seconds, before looking at Geralt, eyes flat. “Is your bard well?”

Jaskier gasps in mock offense, and Geralt can’t help but smile at his buttercup’s familiar theatrics, some of his worry slipping away.

“I am very well, thank you very much!” Jaskier exclaims.

“Like he said, he is well,” Geralt tells the alderman, who simply pulls up one unimpressed eyebrow.

“Hmm.” Jaskier and Geralt exchange a look.  _ That’s Geralt’s line.  _ “If you say so, Witcher. I do so hope you catch this beast soon.” He narrows his already beady eyes. “Wouldn’t want anyone else to die, do we?”

“Hmm.”

“Anyways.” The alderman gestures around the empty room, before turning to Magalie. “Tell Bjorn I’ll be holding a town meeting here tonight. To discuss our…” he glances at Geralt “problem.”

Magalie nods hastily. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Yalculm turns, walking out of the door, into the harsh wind and punishing rain outside, thunder booming overhead.

It’s quiet for a while, as Magalie brings Geralt and Jaskier their breakfast, mopping the floor as they eat, muttering under her breath that  _ gods, so many people, on such short notice, how will I be able to get this place ready by then? _

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks after a while, his blueberry and cinnamon scent overpowered by the heavy cotton of fatigue.

“Hmm?”

“Did you see the alderman’s doublet?”

Geralt frowns, thinking for a few seconds, before shaking his head. Jaskier bends over the table, leaning his forearms on it as he lowers his voice.

“It was made of black silk.”

Geralt can feel his face fall. “You don’t think…”

“Maybe, but he is…”

“Well, yes, that makes sense, but also no one would suspect…”

“True. But how…”

“I don’t know.”

They both look up as Magalie goes to stand next to them, her hands on her hips. “You boys care to let the rest know what’s going on?”

“Well,” Jaskier says. “The alderman’s shirt is made of black silk, the same material as the bag in Jente’s throat.”

Magalie’s blue eyes widen in shock, mouth going slack. “But… but he’s the  _ alderman.” _

_ “Exactly!”  _ Jaskier exclaims, spreading his hands. “No one would suspect a high-profile man such as him.”

“But how would he go about killing a bunch of people without getting seen and recognized?”

“My thoughts exactly! And the short answer is… that we don’t know.”

It’s quiet for a while, until Magalie speaks again: “So how do we prove it’s him?”

“The meeting.” The other two look at Geralt, eyebrows raised. “He’s going to be here tonight, and so is half the town. I can go out, pretend to go looking for the monster-“

“But you’ll be searching his house,” Jaskier fills in for him and Geralt nods.

“Do you two do this often?” Magalie asks, leaning her hands on the table. “Finishing each other’s sentences?”

Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t know. Why?”

She huffs, snatching the mop back from where she put it against the table. “Because it’s bloody annoying. You two really need to have a good long chat about your feelings if you still can’t see what everyone else sees.”

They look at each other, and Jaskier shrugs, making a face like he has no clue what she’s talking about. Geralt couldn’t agree with him more.

_._

By the time the first people start walking into the Sweet Loaf, the rain has stopped completely. The wind is still howling and the thunder still crackles in the distance, the sky on the horizon flashing once or twice every now and again, but at least Geralt no longer has to worry about tracking water all through the alderman’s house. For once, he’s lucky.

He puts on his armour in the room upstairs while Jaskier sits on the bed, watching him. His buttercup is looking more and more pale, his cheeks growing ever hollower – though he still insists he’s fine and that there’s nothing wrong. But Geralt can feel his frigid skin whenever they brush against each other, can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat slowing down with every day that passes.

“Geralt, I swear I’m fine,” Jaskier insists once again, “I can go downstairs. I’ll tell you what they talked about when you come back.”

Geralt frowns, slinging his swords onto his back, though he has no plans of using them tonight. “Magalie can already do that. You need to stay up here and rest.”

“Sweet Melitele’s  _ tits,  _ Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, the burnt-food-scent of anger filtering through the air. “I’m a grown man! I can decide for myself whether I want to stay in bed or not. I’m not made of glass!”

Geralt sighs. “I know. But…”

“But  _ what? _ ”

He thinks about leaving it there, about simply turning away and going outside and letting it be. But he decides not to. After all, Jaskier’s always so adamant about them communicating, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake as the one he made on the mountain – simply keeping everything inside until it explodes outwards at the most inopportune time.

He sighs again, walking over to the bed and laying a hand on Jaskier’s cold shoulder, resisting the urge to bend down and kiss his temple. “But I worry,” he says softly.

Jaskier smiles, laying a freezing hand over his. “I know.” He looks away again, blue eyes growing hazy. “But I’m sure I’ll feel much better once all of this is over.”

“Hmm. You’ll be fine here?”

Jaskier grins up at him, weakly shoving at his side. “Gods! Just go, Geralt. You don’t have much time anyways.”

His buttercup’s right; it probably won’t be long until the alderman is done talking and goes back home, and the last thing they need is the man finding out Geralt broke into his house.

He makes a show of coming down the stairs in full armour, both swords strapped to his back. There’s already a considerable amount of people sitting there, all looking up when they hear his footsteps on the planks. The crowd probably almost consists of half the town, and there’s no doubt the other half will show up soon as well.

“Ah, Witcher!” He spots Yalculm, standing in the centre of the room. “Why the armour, I have to ask.”

“Hmm. I’m going to hunt the monster tonight.”

“Well, let’s hope you catch it this time.”

He ignores the slightly patronizing tone and opens the front door, slipping into the night.

The wind whips around his face, biting at his nose and ears as the thunder crackles in the distance, the world no longer illuminated by violent flashes of lightning every few seconds. All the better for him, then.

There are quite a lot of people outside, still, all of them making their way towards the inn, giving him a few glances as he walks towards the south, to where Jente’s body was found – thought he has no intention of arriving at the scene of the crime.

Once he’s sure he won’t be seeing a lot of people anymore, he slips into an alleyway between two houses, taking a convoluted path back towards the north, towards the centre of White Bridge, making sure he stays in the shadows so no one will spot him.

Eventually, he finds himself in the alleyway behind the alderman’s house. He slips over the hedge, into the small garden, the damp grass softening his footsteps as he walks towards the back door.

It’s unlocked, strangely enough. Though Geralt supposes it makes sense that the alderman wouldn’t do that. After all, there is not gate in the hedge so there’s no easy way to get in, and who would be stupid enough to try to steal from the  _ alderman? _

Geralt is.

He slips inside, closing the door quietly behind him. The house has plenty of windows and the moon is nearly full, so he can see everything clearly – once again, he’s lucky. If he were to use  _ Igni  _ to light his way, someone walking by might see the flickering of the flames through the window.

He doesn’t have time to search the entire house, unfortunately, so he has to decide which rooms might be the most important.

First, he looks through the alderman’s office. He rifles through the drawers of the large desk, flipping through pages upon pages of taxes and prices of grain and correspondences with other towns and trade deals. Nothing besides the fact that White Bridge isn’t as rich as he thought it was, the taxes they pay to the king are quite low.

He searches under the desk, in the hearth, behind the bookshelves. Once again, nothing.

He tries his best not to be disappointed. After all, this is just one room of many  _ and  _ it is where the alderman receives guests. If he were to keep trophies of the murders, he certainly wouldn’t be keeping them here, where anyone could see them.

So, he heads to the next floor.

He finds the alderman’s bedroom quickly enough; a large, imposing room with a lot of dark wood and red silk. He searches the wardrobe and the nightstands. He looks under the bed, in the small writing desk in the corner, taps the wall for any hidden compartments. Absolutely  _ nothing. _

The rest of the floor is nothing more than another large bedroom and a bathroom. The thick layer of dust on the bedroom floor and the spider’s webs in the corners tell Geralt that no one’s been here for quite a while.

So, he heads to the second floor. There’s a door to his left and to his right, the windows in front of him looking down on the rain-slicked streets of White Bridge. He chooses the door closest to him – the one to the right – to inspect first.

This one’s as dusty as the spare bedroom, though it is stacked to the brim with old things. There are books on herbology and animals, books full of knitting and sewing patterns, ones with astrology and moon charts. There are rolls of fabric pushed against one of the walls, a decades-old sewing kit buried under the dust. Stacks on stacks of dresses, carelessly tossed onto the floor, before being forgotten for years, as if someone cleaned out a wardrobe in an attempt to forget a memory, in an attempt to push away the hurt.

This must be the alderman’s wife’s belongings, he concludes. There are footsteps in the dust, though – but they’re not big enough to belong to Yalculm. They lead around the room a bit, some dust wiped off of a surface or a dress here and there, some books removed from one pile to another and, strangely enough, one stack of books missing entirely.

He cocks his head as he wonders who was in here, not so long ago.

That’s when he hears a small, startled gasp behind him, a rabbit-quick heartbeat filling his ears.

He turns around, eyes wide, hand reaching for the dagger on his hip. There’s a girl, standing in the other doorway, looking right at him, one lit candle in her dainty hand. She must be sixteen or seventeen years old, and suddenly Geralt remembers what Magalie told him a few days ago, when he mentioned he’d seen the curtain in the upper right corner of the house move.

The alderman’s daughter, Myrthe.  _ Fuck.  _ He’d forgotten about her.

She’s still staring at him, the flame casting flickering shadows along the walls as she trembles. She reminds him of Triss, Geralt notes in the back of his mind, with her wild curls and her big brown eyes, freckles all along her tan face.

He shakes the thought away, gently raising his hands, trying to find the right words so she doesn’t tell her father that he was here, but his mind comes up empty.

They stare at each other for a little longer, Geralt’s unnaturally slow heartbeat speeding up with every passing second. He can hear people talking outside, footsteps on the wet cobblestone and splashing through the puddles. People are coming back from the meeting, filling the streets of White Bridge again. It won’t be long until the alderman arrives home.

Meanwhile, the girl’s rabbit-quick heartbeat only slows down more and more, as the stench of fear fades from her roses and thyme-scent.

Eventually, she reaches into the pocket of her nightgown, retrieving a small book. She crouches down slowly, never breaking eye-contact as she lays it on the floor in front of her. Then, she takes a few steps back and closes her bedroom door.

Geralt is left standing alone in the hallway, frozen in time for a few seconds. Loud laughter outside shakes him out of his reverie and he dashes forward, shoving the book between his shirt and his armour, going down the stairs as fast and as quietly as he can manage.

He’s barely set foot in the hallway on the ground floor when he hears a key in the front door, the alderman’s laborious breathing outside as he turns the key.

Geralt fumbles for the back door, trying not to make too much noise and blessing all his lucky stars that it wasn’t locked in the first place – and now he knows why, too – and he doesn’t have to re-lock it.

He closes the back door behind him quietly right as the front door opens. He bounds across the garden, hurling himself over the hedge and falling into the alleyway behind the house, knocking his elbows on the cobblestones painfully.

He hears the back door open. “Myrthe?” Yalculm asks, and Geralt closes his eyes, heartbeat pounding in his throat as he prays to every god out there that the alderman will just leave it be and won’t grow suspicious.

The back door closes again.

He gives himself a few seconds to calm down before he gets up, quickly and quietly making his way through the dark alleys of White Bridge, back to the inn. He waits to get on the main roads until he can’t hear other people there anymore, until he’s sure he’s avoided the crowd.

Only when the door to the Sweet Loaf falls closed behind him, does he let himself relax and breathe.

Magalie looks up from where she’s sweeping the dirty floor, her face going slack with relief as she closes her eyes for a second or so. “Good, you’re back.”

“Hmm.”

“So what did you find?”

His eyes drift to the corner, to where Bjorn and Lemming are sitting at a table together, a bottle of hard liquor in front of them. He can’t see Bjorn’s face, but the bitter almonds that emanate off the man nearly suffocate Geralt.

“Nothing,” he lies. He’ll talk about this to Magalie later, when they don’t have an audience. She follows his line of sight and nods.

“That’s a shame,” she says, but he knows she understands what he’s aiming at. “Well, it’s late. We should probably go to sleep. Talk more about this in the morning, when we’re well rested and Jaskier’s here, too.”

“Hmm.”

_._

Jaskier’s asleep when Geralt enters the room, quietly closing the door behind him. He quickly strips his armour and lays the book on the desk, next to the five pages with the victims’ names and details.

Jaskier’s shivering beneath the warm, heavy blankets, his legs twitching, his brow furrowed, the scent of distress coming off him in waves.

Geralt slips under the covers, pulling his buttercup close, ignoring the cold,  _ cold  _ feet that kick at his legs a few times when he does so. He gently strokes Jaskier’s hair, shushing him in the hopes that the nightmare will fade away.

“It’s alright Jaskier. You’re safe, I’m here. It’s alright-“

“Geralt?” He looks down to see Jaskier blinking up at him sleepily. “You’re back,” he slurs. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. We’ll talk about it more tomorrow. Go back to sleep.”

Jaskier yawns, burying his face in Geralt’s shoulder, draping a loose arm over the Witcher’s chest. “’Mkay. Night, Geralt.”

“Night, Jaskier,” he whispers back.

_._

Sleep doesn’t come. Jaskier’s unusually slow heartbeat and cold skin worries him to no end, and some part of him fears that if he falls asleep, he’ll wake up in total silence.

So instead, he carefully slips out from underneath Jaskier, quickly crossing the few steps to the desk and grabbing the notebook he’d gotten from Myrthe. He climbs back under the sheets, pulling Jaskier close again before he can notice Geralt’s absence.

By the light of the near-full moon, he trails his fingers across the embroidered fabric that’s spanned over the leather cover. He opens the notebook with one hand, snaking his other around Jaskier. The first page simply contains a name and a year:  _ Rachel Covri, 1250.  _ Fourteen years ago.

Geralt frowns. The name sounds familiar, and when he digs through his memory, he remembers the alderman’s full name: Yalculm Covri. Meaning that this must be his wife’s notebook.

And not just any of her notebooks, either, but the one from fourteen years ago, right before she died.

He turns the page.

_ The 20 _ _ th _ _ of Feainn. _

_ Myrthe is growing so big, now, I can barely even lift her up anymore. She’s full of energy, too, always running around the house, making up those fantastical, little stories with her wild imagination – sometimes I can’t keep up with her. But that’s a good thing; I want her to be better than me, do better than me. I swear to all the gods, I’ll do anything in my power to make sure she doesn’t go through what I did. _

_ I hope she’s unlike me in every single way. _

_ Yalculm doesn’t like her running around, though. It’s too loud for him when he’s signing trade deals or something. It’s a big house, I’m sure he can barely hear us. Doesn’t matter. He always gets what he wants, anyway. _

_ It’ll be time soon. _

_ Time, time, time. It’s been haunting my every waking moment these past few weeks, and my every dreams and nightmares too, for that matter. I always think I’ve got plenty of it, but whenever I look up and see that my Myrthe has grown so much, I realize how much time has passed, and how little of it I have left. _

_ I’m running out. I can feel it slip through my fingers like sand, and no matter how tightly I try to hold on to it, it keeps flowing, flowing, flowing away. _

_ Gods, there’s so little time left, anymore. _

Geralt frowns. He’s not sure what he just read. It’s strange that the alderman’s wife was talking about running out of time right before she died. Did she know what was coming?

He turns the page.

_ The 27 _ _ th _ _ of Feainn. _

_ I can’t bear it anymore. I can’t do this. Every time, it hurts, it hurts so much. I want to leave, want to get out of here but my little girl – my perfect Myrthe… I can’t leave her behind. And I know him, I know Yalculm. He’ll let me go, but he’ll never stop hunting her if I take her with me. _

_ I’m running out of options. I’m running out of time. _

_ Time, time, time. The clock ticks, the sand slips between my fingers. _

_ I can’t bear this anymore. _

She sounds so desperate, so scared and Geralt wonders what was happening that made her feel this way, that made her want to leave this town with her daughter in tow.

He turns the page.

_ The 3 _ _ rd _ _ of Lammas. _

_ I’ve lost another piece of myself. Myrthe seems to notice I’m emptier, these days. _

Even stranger than the previous ones. Just two sentences, neatly penned down on the page, almost too pretty compared to the desperate scribblings from the page before. He casts a gentle  _ Igni  _ and traces it over the paper to see if she’s written anything in invisible ink. She hasn’t.

He turns the page.

_ The 10 _ _ th _ _ of Lammas. _

_ I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m so fucking tired. I want to stop this, I really do, but I know they’ll hurt her if I do. Gods, she can’t make the same mistakes as me, she can’t become me, but I can’t take her away from here, either. And I can’t leave her behind. _

_ I don’t know what to do. I’m stuck here as long as I’ve got her. But I can’t stay, either. _

_ I remember when my mama married me off to Yalculm. She said: “He’s a powerful man, sweetie. That means you’ll be powerful, too, and so will your children. You’ll be happy.” _

_ Oh, if only she knew how right she’d been. And how wrong. But alas, she’s dead. Good riddance. The only right thing she did was hold her excitement and wait until I was the ripe, old age of 17 before she married me off. _

_ Thank you, mama dearest. Hope it was worth the money. _

_ There’s so little time left. The last grains of it are slipping between my fingers. _

He turns the page.

_ The 12 _ _ th _ _ of Lammas. _

_ I’ve figured it out. I have. I always thought there were two options: live here and suffer, or risk Yalculm’s wrath by taking my little girl and running far, far away. How stupid I was to not see the third option. _

_ But I see it now. _

_ I wanted to tell her how sorry mommy is about all of this, that she won’t be seeing me again, and how much I love her. But she would never remember any of it. She’s only three. And even if she could, I could never tell her, could never convey any of it. _

_ I thought about writing her a letter. A nice, long one explaining everything. But Yalculm would most certainly find it and burn it. _

_ So there are no parting words from me. No teary farewells or heartfelt goodbyes. She’ll just have to live without me, somehow. Yalculm will take care of her. In his own way, admittedly, but take care of her he will, nonetheless. _

He turns the page.

_ The 13 _ _ th _ _ of Lammas. _

_ I’ve lost another piece of myself, for the last time. I’ll be gone, soon. _

There are no more entries after that.

He frowns at the notebook, flipping through blank page after blank page. There’s really nothing else in there, nothing to indicate why Myrthe thought this diary important enough to give to him. Maybe she did it because it’s abundantly clear her mother hadn’t died of some disease – she wouldn’t have been able to predict her own death if she had.

So, what? What happened to Rachel after the last entry? Did she end things herself? That seems to be the most likely thing – that  _ third option  _ she was talking about. The alderman probably told everyone she’d succumbed to an illness afterwards to spare himself the shame; after all, if people found out Rachel had killed herself, they would start asking questions as to  _ why  _ she’d done it.

But the girl got her hands on the notebook anyways. And no matter what her father told her, she now knows the truth. So maybe that’s why she gifted it to Geralt, so he could see what kind of man Yalculm Covri is.

He sighs and puts the book on the nightstand, right as the sky outside the window begins to darken. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll have to face a new day, a new dawn.

It’s been over a week and a half since he arrived at White Bridge, and he’s barely come any closer to solving the string of murders. Not only that, but someone else has died on his watch.

And for what? What did he gather from Jente’s body? Her children are orphans just so Geralt can now know that the victims’ hands were bound with wire? So that he has a black, silk bag full of herbs and dried flowers sitting on the desk in the corner? And what has that taught him about the killer?

Nothing.

He’s nowhere near solving this, and the gods only know when the murderer will strike again. Could be next week, could be tomorrow, could be today. Either way, Geralt’s none the wiser, and there will just be more blood on his hands when it happens.

Because it will happen.

_._

A few hours later, he’s waiting downstairs for Jaskier to wake up.

Magalie has already brought him his breakfast and he’s already eaten it. Now, she’s sitting at one of the tables, knitting a scarf while she fills him in on what was said during the meeting last night. In the distance, Geralt can hear the sound of Bjorn’s hammer hitting the wind-swept roof to repair the storm damage.

“Well, last night was pretty uneventful,” Magalie says, the  _ tick tick tick  _ of her knitting needles distracting Geralt a bit. “I’m pretty sure you noticed it didn’t last long.”

He remembers the sound of the key in the lock of the alderman’s front door vividly, and nods. “Hmm.”

“Yalculm wanted us to stay inside as much as possible and he made some passive aggressive remarks about the fact that the monster’s not been caught yet. But besides that, he mostly listened to people complain.”

“Hmm.”

“And you? What did you find?” He frowns, looking at the stairs, and Magalie gets the message. “Right. You’re right, we should wait for Jaskier.”

“Hmm.”

She snorts, turning her attention back to her scarf. “You know, I do wonder how you two ended up together. He’s a real chatterbox, and you’re… well…”

He smiles lightly. “Long story.”

She shrugs, gesturing at the stairs. “We’ve got time.”

He sighs. “It started twenty-five years ago-“

_._

“Alright,” Jaskier says, making a face at the diary where it lays open on the table in front of him. “So that made absolutely no sense.”

“For once I have to agree with the bard,” Magalie says.

“Rude.”

“So, what? She killed herself? Is that it?”

Geralt shrugs. “I think so. There’s no other explanation.”

Magalie sighs, wiping some stray strands of hair from her face, furious blush rising to her cheeks. “Gods, I never felt comfortable being alone in a room with that bastard, but I never could’ve guessed he was this bad. And you said Myrthe gave it to you?”

“Hmm.”

“How’d you know it was her?”

“She was in the room at the top right corner of the house. And she was the only other person there.”

“Let’s hope you didn’t give  _ her  _ anything,” Jaskier mutters.

Geralt frowns. “What?”

Jaskier shrugs, flipping through the empty pages of the diary. “Magalie said the alderman’s keeping the girl inside because she has a weak disposition. So let’s hope you didn’t give her any, like-“ he waves his hand “-Witcher-y diseases.”

Magalie sighs, wiping her hands over her face before crossing her arms. “Honestly, who even knows if anything the man says is true. He might as well be keeping her locked in the house for a different reason.”

“She’s not locked up,” Geralt recalls, thinking back to the unlatched back door. “She can go into the garden any time she wants.”

“But not into town,” the barmaid says, eyebrows pulled up. “Maybe he doesn’t want other people to see her?”

“But why not?”

It’s quiet for a while, the only sounds breaking the silence the howling of the wind outside, the insistent hammering on the roof as Bjorn repairs it, and the rustling of the pages of the diary.

Geralt frowns, glancing over to Jaskier, who’s now holding the last page of the notebook over a lit candle, his tongue peeking out between his lips in concentration.

He sighs. “I’ve already tried that.”

“You tried it with every page?”

He blinks, then frowns. “I… no.”

Jaskier looks up at him and throws him a cheeky grin. “Figured that much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, not too unkindly.

“Oh, nothing, nothing.”

“Hmm.” He catches Magalie looking between the two of them with a little, knowing smile.  _ Knowing  _ what, exactly, he’s not sure, but he glares at her anyways. Her smile turns into a full-blown grin.

His attention is pulled away, though, when Jaskier lets out a soft gasp. “Look!”

Geralt hurries over to his side, looking over his shoulder at the last page of the notebook, a single sentence in invisible ink, revealed by the heat of the flame.

“ _ Myrthe, if you’re reading this: for protection and good sleep, all you need is time.” _

Geralt frowns, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Maybe she’s telling her daughter to take some time off for… a… vacation.” His voice trails off into nothingness, eyes distant as he undoubtedly realizes that what he’s saying doesn’t make much sense.

But then again, Geralt can’t come up with a logical explanation, either. He supposes it might be some sort of code – but if it is, it’s not one he’s ever seen before.

Had he been at Kaer Morhen, he would’ve gone to Eskel or Vesemir for help; they always seem good with codes and secret messages and whatnot. If either of them were here, they’d probably even solve this whole thing in a day. Hell, Yennefer would likely be able to find the killer within the  _ hour. _

Geralt briefly wonders how she’s doing right now, teaching Ciri magic in Aretuza. They’ll be at Kaer Morhen for the winter, though, so he’ll be able to see them then.

_ If  _ he makes it to Kaer Morhen in the first place – and the only way to do that is to solve this thing before winter sets in and the passes that lead to the keep get snowed under. Though, with every day that passes, the air grows colder and colder, winter a step closer with every minute he wastes in this damned town. The idea that he might make it home before the first snow seems more and more unlikely.

A small touch at his elbow pulls him out of his thoughts and he looks at Jaskier, who’s staring at him, wide-eyed and oh so concerned. “You have that look on your face.”

He frowns. “What look?”

“The look that tells me something’s on your mind. Something’s troubling you.”

He shakes his head, looks away. “It’s fine.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says softly before turning back to the notebook, though his tone makes it clear that it’s very much  _ not  _ alright.

It makes something in Geralt’s gut churn, that knowledge that he’s so transparent to Jaskier – gods, he wonders what else his buttercup can see with those impossibly blue eyes of his. Can he see how happy Geralt is to have him back? Can he see how worried Geralt is whenever he sees the dark circles under those eyes, whenever he can practically  _ feel  _ Jaskier’s skin grow thinner and thinner beneath his fingertips? Can he see how much Geralt loves him?

Maybe. Maybe not. It really doesn’t matter, does it? All that matters is that Jaskier’s here and he’s not mad with Geralt and maybe, one day, the knowledge that all this is one-sided will stop hurting so much.

_._

_ Swoosh.  _ Every stroke of the brush through Roach’s fur brings a new piece of information to the front of his mind.

_ Swoosh. _ There are five victims so far.

_ Swoosh.  _ Three were found in the north, two in the south.

_ Swoosh.  _ There is no connection between the victims.

_ Swoosh.  _ The alderman’s wife killed herself.

_ Swoosh.  _ He’s keeping his daughter locked away for some unknown reason.

_ Swoosh.  _ He was seen talking to the mage shortly after the very first victims died.

_ Swoosh.  _ When Geralt went to talk to the mage himself, he was acting suspicious and he was lying through his teeth.

The brush stops mid-air and he takes a step back, frowning at the brown fur. Roach snorts and turns her head, nudging at his shoulder, probably not happy with the fact that her pampering got interrupted by Geralt trying to solve several murders.

The mage, Edrevod, is familiar with the alderman, who’s also been acting very suspicious. Edrevod lied when he said he didn’t know who the Witcher that took care of the drowners was, lying when he said that Theo’s death had nothing to do with the other deaths. Lying when he said the shepherd was killed by the drowners.

Edrevod knows more about the murders.

He lifts the brush again, working it over Roach’s side in broad, even strokes, though a little more frantic than usual as his mind races with what this might mean.

_ Swoosh.  _ If Edrevod is in on the murders and he’s friendly with the alderman, there’s a good chance they’re both working together to kill these people.

_ Swoosh.  _ But why? Maybe some sick fantasy? To feel powerful? Are they bored?

_ Swoosh.  _ So maybe the little silk bag with herbs and flower petals they found in the back of Jente’s throat was there for a spell of some sort.

_ Swoosh.  _ But why would a spell be needed? And what did it even do? Surely, it would be enough to burn the victim.

_ Swoosh.  _ And there’s of course the possibility that neither of them did it. That neither of them is the murderer. There’s no hard evidence, just the fact that they were lying – and people lie all the time. Doesn’t make them killers.

He sighs, stepping back from Roach and hanging the brush on one of the hooks on the wall. Sure, this realization might answer some questions, but it’s also raised several more – and there’s a chance it’s not even what’s really going on in the first place.

He rubs a hand over his eyes and starts making his way out of the stables when he bumps into Bjorn.

The man hiccups and staggers a bit as he takes a step back. His eyes are bloodshot and unfocused, the smell of strong liquor and bitter almonds coming off of him in waves.

“Brushed your horse, witcher?” the innkeeper slurs.

“Hmm.”

They stay silent for a few seconds as Bjorn sways where he stands, keeping one hand on the stable wall to keep himself upright. Brown eyes remain on the hay bales in the corner for a moment before focusing on Geralt again.

“Witcher. You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Geralt snorts. He’s got plenty on his mind – Bjorn’s drunk off his ass, there’s a serial killer on the loose and Jaskier’s slowly growing more ill by the day.

“What do you know about the alderman’s wife?” he finds himself asking before he can think twice about it.

Bjorn frowns and it clearly takes him a few seconds to gather his thoughts, but then he shrugs. “Rachel? Died about fourteen years ago from some disease. I had a crush on her when I was a young lad, before…” he hiccups again, the bitter grief of almonds an assault on Geralt’s nose. “Before I met Jente. Everyone had a crush on Goldilocks.”

“Goldilocks.”

“Cause she had those pretty, blonde curls.”

Something heavy settles like a stone in Geralt’s gut and he feels the blood drain from his face. He nods at Bjorn before pushing past him. “Thanks.”

The door to the inn slams shut behind him and he leans against it, mind suddenly blissfully empty, reeling from the shock.

_ Goldilocks. Cause she had those pretty, blonde curls. _

_ A seventeen year old girl, standing in the doorway, a candle in her shaking hand, casting light and shadows alike over her freckled, dark skin, her black hair a mess of wild curls, her eyes a deep, earthy colour. She reminds him of Triss. _

Myrthe isn’t the alderman’s biological daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe the real monster was the serial killer we found along the way.  
> I'm on tumblr! @king-finnigan
> 
> Again! Please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment! They really fuel me and they make me very, very happy.


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